The rain didn't fall—it pounded. Each drop hit the attic's skylight like a fist, a relentless tattoo that seeped into the walls, making the floorboards groan under my feet. I stared at the eviction notice taped to my laptop, its edges curling from the humidity. Three days. That's all the landlord had given me. The bank account balance blinked back: $12.47. The fridge? A jar of pickles, expired, their brine turned cloudy.
I kicked the wastebasket, sending crumpled rejection letters skittering. That's when the desk drawer exploded open.
Not a slow creak, but a violent snap—as if someone inside had shouldered it, the wood slamming against the desk leg hard enough to rattle my coffee mug. I froze. That drawer was supposed to hold nothing but a broken stapler and a half-eaten granola bar.
But there, nestled in the corner, was a paperweight.
Bone china, I thought, though I'd never cared much for antiques. It was carved into a lotus seedpod, its petals slightly curled as if mid-bloom, the porcelain a sickly off-white—like old teeth. Where the seeds should be, there were beads: small, yellowed, smooth as polished bone, but with a greasy sheen that caught the lamplight.
I reached for it, half-curious, half-annoyed. Probably left by the previous tenant, that weird professor who studied "ocean myths" and bolted in the middle of the night.
My thumb brushed the porcelain.
The rain stopped.
Not gradually. Instantly. One second, the skylight roared; the next, silence. I could hear the last drop hit the AC unit outside, a sound so sharp it felt like a pinprick. Then the street noise cut out: a car backfiring, a kid's scream, even the hum of the lamp—all gone. The air thickened, as if someone had stuffed cotton in my ears.
And then—click.
A tiny sound, right from the paperweight. Like a fingernail tapping from the inside.
I yanked my hand back. The hair on my arms stood up. The professor's boxes were still stacked in the corner, unopened. Maybe I should've gone through them.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound hit like a gunshot. I grabbed the letter opener from the desk—its blade thin, but sharp—and crept to the door. The peephole was smudged, but I pressed my eye to it anyway.
The hallway was pitch-black. The motion sensor should've lit up, but it stayed dead, as if the dark had swallowed its power. All I could make out was a shape: short, stooped, with something bulky in its arms. A bag? It looked wicker, the kind grandmothers use for knitting.
"Who is it?" My voice cracked.
No answer. Just three more knocks, slow and deliberate, the rhythm wrong—tap… tap… tap—like someone using a thumbnail.
I thought of the news: a burglar targeting attics, slipping in through vents. My grip tightened on the letter opener.
Then my phone buzzed.
I fumbled it out. The screen lit up with a number I didn't recognize: 555-0987-*, the last digit a star, like a typo.
The knocking started again. Tap… tap… tap…
I swiped to answer, pressing the phone to my ear while my free hand braced against the door. "Hello?"
Static. Not the fuzzy kind—wet static, like a radio dropped in a puddle. Under it, a murmur: a hundred voices, all too low to make out, but their tone was wrong. Not angry or scared. Hungry.
Then—click.
Same as the paperweight.
I spun. The seedpod was on the desk now, not in the drawer. One of its bone beads had a crack, thin as a hair, and through it oozed something dark red—thick, slow, like blood.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Harder this time. The door shuddered. I looked through the peephole again. The shape had tilted its head, as if listening. I couldn't see a face, but I felt it—something was staring back, cold and slimy, like a fish watching from the bottom of a lake.
The static cleared. A scraping sound, like shells grinding, then a voice. It wasn't human. It was like gravel in a blender, each word a struggle:
"It… wants…"
The line went dead.
The knocking stopped.
I stood there, chest heaving, until my legs shook. No footsteps, no breathing—just that smothering silence. Finally, I stepped back, my eyes locked on the paperweight.
I needed to get rid of it. Now.
But as I moved, I noticed the keyboard. Strands of silver were draped over the keys, thin as spider silk but sticky, glistening. They snaked from the paperweight, some even creeping over my phone, which I'd dropped. I bent to pick it up, and the smell hit me: salt, but not the ocean kind. Rotting. Like low tide in a dumpster.
Click.
Loud enough to make me jump. The crack in the bead had widened. Through it, I saw a glint of red—not just fluid. A pupil. Blinking.
I stumbled back, tripping over the rug. That's when I saw the puddle.
It was spreading from under the door, thick and syrupy, darkening the floorboards as it moved. It inched toward the desk, toward the paperweight, leaving a trail that smoked faintly.
The rain hadn't stopped. It had just stopped making noise.
A memory surfaced: the professor's book, tucked under a box. Sea Curses: The "Drowners' Talismans". I'd flipped through it once, seen a drawing of something like this—"bone conchs," made from drowned sailors' fingers, used to "call the deep." The book said they woke at three clicks.
First: it stirs.
Second: it sees.
Third: it comes.
Click.
Third click.
Not from the paperweight. From my phone, screen-up on the floor. I bent, my hand shaking, and picked it up. A new message, from that typo number.
A photo.
My window, from outside. But where glass should be, there was flesh—pulsing, red, pockmarked with holes. Each hole held a bone bead, just like the paperweight's.
In the center, an eye stared back. No iris, just milky white, filmed with slime, like it had been dredged from the ocean floor.
I gagged, dropping the phone. It hit the floor, screen spiderwebbing, but the image burned into my brain.
Click. Click. Click.
A chorus now, rapid-fire. I looked up. The paperweight was unfolding. Cracks spread across its surface, oozing that red fluid, which ate into the desk with a hissing sound. The bone beads split, and from each wriggled a tendril—gray, slimy, tipped with a tiny eye.
From outside came a thud, like something heavy hitting the sidewalk. Then dragging. Slow, scraping, coming closer. The rot smell hit full-force, thick enough to taste.
I backed into the corner, the wall digging into my shoulders. No escape. Left: the window, now showing that fleshy mass, swelling against the glass. Right: the closet, its door ajar, darkness spilling out.
The paperweight "stood" on its tendrils, inching toward me, clicking with each step. Counting.
One. Two. Three.
Counting my heartbeats.
I noticed writing on its base, tiny and warped, as if carved in a panic:
When the beads open, the tide fills the room. Plug your ears.
Tide?
The floor rumbled.
Not an earthquake. A growl, deep and resonant, coming from everywhere—walls, floor, ceiling—as if the house floated on a stormy sea. The puddle bubbled, and from it sprouted more tendrils, thicker, wrapping around my ankles. Cold, slimy, with suckers that bit into my skin.
Haaa… haaa…
Breathing. From the walls. Wet, ragged, like a beast gasping for air.
The paperweight's seedpod split open, revealing a mass of red flesh, studded with eyes—dozens of them, all fixed on me.
Then I remembered: a line in that book, scrawled in the margin. "Bone conchs fear fire. The deep hates the sun."
Fire.
I had a lighter. A cheap one, in the junk drawer, for candles.
I lunged, yanking my ankle free—pain flaring as the tendril's suckers tore at my skin—and dived for the desk. My fingers scrabbled through the drawer until I found it.
Click.
The lighter flared, a tiny blue flame.
The tendrils hissed, jerking back, smoking. The paperweight froze, more fluid oozing, as if afraid.
I held the flame steady. Safe? For a second.
Then I saw the phone. Its cracked screen glowed, and new words appeared, written in what looked like blood:
It fears fire. But its mother loves the burn.
Mother?
A roar split the silence. Not animal, not human. A low, guttural rumble, like a thousand bubbles bursting in a deep well. The flesh on the window rippled, and a tentacle erupted—thick as a tree trunk, covered in suckers—smashing through the glass. Seawater sprayed,腥咸 and cold.
Hanging from its tip, tangled in suckers, was a body.
A man, in a gray sweater—just like the one in the professor's closet. His face was swollen, blue, but that lopsided nose was unmistakeable.
It was him.
The flame flickered. I felt it then—a presence, ancient and vast, filling the room, cold as the ocean floor.
The paperweight clicked joyfully. Its tendrils surged forward, ignoring the flame now.
I glanced at the door. The dragging sound had stopped right outside. Waiting.
The phone's screen dimmed, but not before I read the last line:
Fourth click. It's eating your bones.
Click.
Fourth click.
It came from the paperweight.
It came from the tentacle.
It came from behind the door.
It came from inside my head.
Then the light went out.