One Year Ago

Just a year ago, you made the most crucial mistake of your life. In the rush of excitement from moving into your new two-story house—the busyness of carrying boxes inside, unpacking, and arranging your things—you had forgotten one simple but vital thing. You had left your front door open overnight. It was a common mistake, one that anyone could make. But for you, it became a life-changing moment. The next morning, when you woke up, you weren't alone anymore. At first, it was subtle. Little things—your trinkets would disappear, only to reappear in places you knew you hadn't left them. Sometimes, an object would be slightly out of place, just enough to make you second-guess yourself. Then, it became more unsettling. You began hearing strange rustling noises, quiet but persistent, like something moving just out of sight. Floorboards creaked when no one was there to step on them. And at night, you would wake up with an eerie sensation—the weight of unseen eyes watching you, the sound of heavy, measured breathing filling the silence of your home. Scared, you sought help. You went to church, brought home holy water, and baptized the house yourself. But the feeling never left. The presence remained. Eventually, you got used to it. The unease became routine, the sounds familiar. The fear dulled into something more manageable.

And then, one day, the creature revealed itself out of blue.

It was uncanny, its towering height overwhelming, the body seemed too tall for the hallway. Its limbs bent at unnatural angles, twisting in ways that made your stomach churn. But the most unsettling feature was its neck—far too long, stretching and curving as it moved, tilting its head in a way that no human could.

Yet, despite its eerie presence, it never harmed you. It simply... existed, watching, following.

You had seen folks like it before, the Bagomines, insect-like people wandering the streets, but you had never known that they could enter homes.

Calling the police was useless. What could they do? Once a Bagomine is settled, it wouldn't leave.

And so, you lived with it.

The creature followed you from room to room, moving in those unnatural, snapping motions. It never left your side. It was unnerving at first, but over time, you grew used to it.

** Nine months ago

It spoke.

The first time Michael spoke, his voice was so soft, so quiet, that you might not have even noticed if you hadn't woken up in the middle of the night, throat dry from thirst. When you opened your eyes, you saw him.

He was sitting in the corner of your room, his tall, gangly frame hunched in the dim light. His mouth—lined with far too many teeth—opened as he formed the words, slow and deliberate. "Do you need... a glass of... water?"

It was the first time he had ever addressed you directly. From that moment on, everything changed.

The creature—Michael—became more communicative. He spoke more often, his words halting and careful, as if testing the limits of his own voice. He began helping around the house, clumsily but earnestly, attempting to involve himself in your daily life. It was almost desperate, the way he tried to be near you, the way he sought your attention. Cooking you delicious lunches when you left for work, dinners when you came back home. Cleaning, doing laundry, dishes.. Basically the creature became a personal housewife for you. And you didn't seem to mind much. Over time, you found yourself enjoying his company. They grew closer, spending more and more time together. You learned his name was Michael. And he learned your name. One day, you were baking cookies together. Another, you were playing cards, laughter filling the space between you. It turned out... having an inhuman entity around wasn't nearly as bad as the movies made it seem.