It started off small. Like, really small.
I was searching for a pair of earrings. I keep them in a little glass bowl by my bed, and every time I take a pair of earrings off I put the back on so I don’t lose it. But I found an extra earring back, a little twist of curved silver, just drifting about in the sea of earrings all by itself. I couldn’t find a single earring that didn’t have its back.
I didn’t think much of it beyond a vague confusion. But I kept it just in case.
But then one day I opened my kitchen drawer to get a fork and picked up a fork I didn’t recognise.
I live alone. People rarely come round. The fork had a different pattern on its handle than the forks I’d purchased.
That made me more uneasy than the earring thing. How could someone smuggle a fork into my drawer?
I never used the fork. It was a weird shape. I didn’t like how it felt in my hand.
Next I found a pen in the pot on my desk. I favour the type with the retractable nib, as I’m prone to losing lids, but this pen had a lid. It was one that unscrewed, which I thought was fairly novel, so I kept it. I didn’t use the pen though. It was of a kind of metal that felt uncomfortable against my hand, and the nib was blunt.
You may wonder why I didn’t question the appearance of these things in my home, but when they are so small and so normal one tends to brush it off. Sometimes I forget things, as everyone does. Maybe I’d brought them home myself.
The umbrella was a different matter.
I have an umbrella stand by my door and it has always held exactly two umbrellas at any time. It took me a few days to notice the intruder, as the days had been dry and I hadn’t needed an umbrella, but when it rained I discovered 3 umbrellas in my stand. The newcomer was a mottled grey, with a curved leather handle. Quite a smart umbrella, honestly, but the handle didn’t fit right in my palm. The leather felt slimy and… Alive. More like skin than cured skin.
I took the umbrella outside and put it with the trash. I didn’t like the way the handle seemed to have a pulse.
A coat appeared next. Some kind of hooded garment with a fur trim, hanging on my coat rack. The fur trim was soft, but it shed when I touched it. Little strands of hair sticking to me that itched.
It was my size, and very warm, but I donated it the next day. The noises it made during the night made it difficult to sleep.
It’s tiring to find strange things in one’s home. The armchair that appeared yesterday doesn’t get in the way, and it matches my decor perfectly, but it sighs when I sit in it. It almost sounds sexual. I don’t like that.
I will probably stop writing soon. The keys on my keyboard have started to push back when I press them. And the framed picture on the wall that has been above my bed for the past few days has been stretching in a way that is very distracting.
I thought all this might be in my head, but I called my mother while I was at work today and told her about what had been happening. She came round to my house, using the key I’d given her. She didn’t stay long. She sent me a message right after, telling me not to go home, but to come to her house straight after work. She was vehement about it, kept gabbling about the hallway rug having fingers, or something, but she’s always been prone to dramatics. Still, I will go to her house once I’ve picked up a few essential items. I think I could use the break.
I need to get my suitcase from the hall closet, but I will admit I’m nervous. I know I didn’t leave the door open. And I don’t like the way the closet is breathing.