Neither of us wanted to touch it. We stood several feet away, analyzing it like investigators at a crime scene. The room suddenly felt dirtier than it had minutes earlier. I started mentally replaying every strange smell, every creak in the walls, every tiny thing I had ignored over the past few weeks. My imagination moved fast. Maybe something had died under the furniture. Maybe insects had gotten into the house. Maybe we had been sleeping only feet away from something disgusting for days.
Finally, after several minutes of nervous speculation, I grabbed a broom and slowly nudged the object into the light.
The truth was almost embarrassing.
It wasn’t alive.
It wasn’t a parasite.
It wasn’t dangerous at all.
It was a pistachio shell.
More specifically, half of a pistachio shell covered in dust and darkened at one end from old seasoning. Somehow it had rolled beneath the bed weeks earlier and collected just enough dirt to transform into something that looked deeply unsettling in low light.
For a second, there was silence.
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