Darkness wasn’t a lack of light in Grandma Marla’s house. It was something else. Something present.

The first time I noticed it, I was six, chasing a dropped spoon under the dining table. My fingers reached for silver, but touched something warm instead. It pulsed like jelly and slithered backward. I screamed. Marla gave me a cookie and told me never to crawl under furniture again.

Years passed. The light bulbs dimmed faster than they should. Flashlights died. Shadows in the corners bulged and breathed.

We never mentioned it aloud, except in hushed jokes. But we all felt it. The dark wasn’t empty. It watched.

At night, I’d see it slinking up the stairs—hugging walls, avoiding moonlight. A slick ripple. Marla called it “the old tenant.” She said he came with the mortgage.

“He’s polite, mostly,” she’d say, folding laundry that smelled of burnt leaves. “Just don’t acknowledge him directly.”

Last summer, I brought home a girl. We were making out on the couch when she said, “Is your dog behind the curtain?” I didn’t have a dog. We both heard the breathing—wet and near.

I broke up with her the next day. I had to.

Now, Marla’s gone. The house is mine. The will said, “Feed it occasionally. It likes jazz and fingernails.”

I don’t turn on lights anymore. What’s the point? The darkness has moved into the living room. Sometimes it giggles. Sometimes it eats. Mailmen, mostly. Once, a Jehovah’s Witness.

I sit across from it now, my coffee going cold, watching the thick coil of it rest in Marla’s old recliner.

“Good morning,” I whisper.

It doesn’t speak, but it leans closer. It has no face, but somehow, it smiles.

The End