That morning began like any other. I went outside just to water the flowers and check on the garden before the heat of the day set in. The air was cool and damp, the kind of morning that makes you glad to be outside. I was moving between the flower beds, half-awake, coffee still warm in my hand, when I saw something that stopped me completely in my tracks. There, near the flowerbed in the corner of the yard, lay something I had never seen before in my life. Something red and slimy, glistening wet in the morning light, like a mass of flesh that had been twisted, torn open, and left to rot. I actually stepped backward. My heart started hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. Every thought that rushed through my head made less sense than the last. An animal? Something injured? Something dead? And that smell — the moment I caught it, my stomach turned. Heavy and nauseating, like the worst kind of decay, the kind of smell that sticks to your clothes and follows you back inside.
I stood there for what felt like a long time, just staring. The thing was red and brown, slick with something that looked disturbingly like blood and slime combined. Its shape was wrong in a way that was hard to describe — not round, not flat, but reaching outward in long, irregular extensions that curved slightly at the ends, like fingers. Or claws. The color was the vivid, alarming red of raw meat, and the surface caught the morning light in a way that made it look wet and alive. For a moment I genuinely could not move. I was convinced I was looking at the remains of something — an animal, perhaps, that had been badly hurt overnight. Or something worse. The thought crossed my mind, and I am not ashamed to admit it, that I was looking at something that should not exist. Something not from a world I recognized.
