I woke upâhis side of the bed was cold. I stepped outside and froze when I saw him.
He wasnât walking toward the curb where the garbage truck passes. Instead, he was standing at the very edge of our driveway, near the old storm drain that leads into the city sewers.
The streetlights were flickering, casting long, dancing shadows, but I could see him clearly. He wasn’t just holding the trash bag; he was shaking it, as if trying to get the attention of something.
“Here,” I heard him whisper, his voice trembling in the silence. “Take it. Itâs fresh.”
I watched in horror as he leaned over the iron grate. He didn’t drop the bag. He held it out.
Suddenly, a long, pale arm shot out from the darkness of the drain. It was impossibly thin, wet, and gray, with too many joints. It snatched the white bag from his hands with a wet slap that echoed in the quiet street.
My husband scrambled backward, hyperventilating, wiping his hands on his pajama pants as if they were dirty.
“That’s it,” he stammered to the drain. “That’s all for tonight. Go away.”
From the depths of the sewer, a sound drifted upâa low, raspy voice that sounded like grinding stones. “Still… hungry.”
My husband put his head in his hands and began to sob. “I don’t have anything else! I’ve given you the scraps, the leftovers… please, just let us sleep.”
“The meat… is in the doorway,” the voice hissed.
My husbandâs head snapped up. He spun around and saw me standing on the porch. The look on his face wasn’t guilt. It was sheer terror.
“Sarah, run!” he screamed, lunging toward me.
But he wasn’t fast enough. The heavy iron grate exploded upward, landing on the pavement with a deafening crash. Something tall, gray, and unfolding like a spider began to pull itself out of the hole.
“I told you I was taking out the trash,” my husband yelled, tackling me to the ground as the creature shrieked. “Because if I don’t feed it the trash… it comes inside to hunt.”
