By the time I finally forced myself to pick it up, I’d already written three horror stories in my head. I imagined calling pest control, scrubbing the whole room, maybe even throwing the mattress out. My son hovered in the doorway, half-curious, half-ready to bolt if it moved. The thing looked so disturbingly organic that every instinct told me to back away.
And then, with one reluctant pinch, the truth snapped the tension in an instant. It bent. It stretched. It didn’t squirm. It was just an old, dried-out piece of chewing gum, coated in dust, hair, and time. All that fear, all that suspense, over something tossed aside and forgotten. We burst out laughing, partly from relief, partly at how wild our imaginations had run in the dark spaces we rarely dare to look.
