I stare at the clock as my mind swings between erratic and still, uneasy yet excited. I figure enough time has passed by now, it’s too late to come back for anything forgotten. I won’t be seeing anyone for 3 weeks. They sadly and guiltily left me, wishing for easy days of work, apologizing for the unchangeable dates and rigid retail overlords. I quit two days ago. I hadn’t told them. The past month I’ve spent counting down the days for this moment like a kid waiting for summer break. My perfectly measured action plan was ready to go.

I stood up and walked to the empty kitchen; the house had never been so quiet before. Everyone has different schedules, so every passing hour of the day and night you’ll hear a bang, a scratch, a tapping, an energetic conversation. Now all I hear is the rustling leaves outside, the ticking of the clock, and the hum of the air conditioning. A nearly silent house. I opened the dishwasher and grabbed the dishes out, setting them gently back into the sink and turning the water on. I wanted to do something. I haven’t adjusted to the stillness. I’ve always enjoyed a ritual to put my mind at ease, and dishes are perfect for that. The sound of the water was nice; it broke the silence. I did the dishes one by one, washing, then drying, then putting them away, and repeat—quietly as I could. CLANK. I jumped. Just a plate bumping the edge of the sink as I washed it. It seems I still couldn’t make the sounds of a living person; I’ve always preferred to stay unobtrusive—apparently even to the empty air.

The day was moving on, and it was time for me to begin my plan. I found the stash of small items in my closet I had prepared for the weeks ahead. Two items for every day. One for midday and one for the evening. I grabbed a seashell—something simple to start. Flipping the seashell around in my hand, I walked down the stairs. Something like excitement with a tinge of dread filled my body as I got closer to the kitchen cabinets. I could never do this when my family was around, they would hate for me to befriend it. No. They would hate for me to even acknowledge it. I placed the seashell on the counter, right below one of the cabinets. I was careful to pad the noise; I didn’t want to disturb it. I opened the cabinet and waited two seconds. One. Two. Then I closed the cabinet. We will be friends before the first week is over, I’m sure.

A few days have passed; I’ve settled into my routine now. I leave my first offering around 12 pm, open and close the cabinet and move on until it is time for the second one—around 6 pm. By the time I come back to give the second, the first has been taken, the counter clear and ready for whatever I bring next. It seemed a harmonious relationship now. I’ve started finding my previously dirty clothes cleaned and folded up neatly in my closet. A bracelet I had lost a few months ago was sitting on my desk in a cute little tray where I keep other jewelry, and anything else I left out would be found in its original place. Every mess I made was tidied for me in return for daily offerings.

I grabbed my next offering and left it on the hall table next to the bathroom. It was a bit early, and I needed to wash my face. Another ritual for calming my mind. I got everything ready. Face wash on the counter, towel in reach, moisturizer and sunscreen on the opposite side of the sink, so I don’t knock them off reaching for my towel. Everything in its place. Everything perfect. The water is nice and frigid as I wash my face. Time for the towel. I reach for it but find only the empty counter. Did I knock it off with my elbow? No. I was too careful for that. I blindly move my hand around the counter where it was, but I can’t find it. I try to open my eyes, but some left over face wash stings my eyes. I shut them quickly and reach behind me for a bath towel hanging on the wall. I find it and finally scrub my face clean. When I open my eyes, the towel I left out was sitting neatly folded right where I had left it. That’s wrong. I can swear it wasn’t there. I see movement in the corner of the mirror. A sense of wrongness fills me, and I shiver and leave the bathroom. The offering is gone. I look on the floor and around the table. I can’t find anything. I thought it only lived in the cabinets. It wasn’t supposed to be anywhere else.

I double-checked my closet for the trinket—a small clay statue of a giraffe—it wasn’t there either. It really was taken from the table. Should I find another offering to give properly? It might not count if it takes it from somewhere else in the house. Did I run late? Did it get impatient? I checked the time. 5:56 pm. Nope. Still a few minutes early for the offering. I search for another trinket from my closet, it’s better to be safe than sorry, I think. I choose a little gold coin souvenir with a spaceship on it. The dread I felt in the bathroom returns as I pass the door on the way to the stairs. 5:59 pm. I place the trinket on the counter and wait until 6:00 before I open the cabinet. One. Two. I close it. This ritual usually soothes me, but now I only feel more dread. I can feel it wants more.

I’m trying to sleep but I keep noticing glints in the mirror hung up on my wall. I close my eyes and turn the other way. I can feel the walls move in a little closer. The hours of the night creep by, and I feel an odd claustrophobia as I sink myself further into my bed, seeking the safety and warmth it once gave me. As the sun rises, the hours I spent awake turn into a strange, dreamlike sort of trance in my mind. I’ve decided to increase the number of offerings. It doesn’t seem satisfied with only two, the way it used to. Fine. One offering in the morning now too. Maybe 8 am. That’s probably soon. I get up from my bed, but something is very wrong now. The walls really are closer. Are they? I can’t quite tell but I know they feel closer today. I look in the mirror as I go to my closet, but I stop in my tracks. It’s there. It’s waiting. It needs. I can feel its need; it’s terrifying—it’s disgusting. Why does it need more? I thought this was enough. I thought we were in harmony. I feel my breath still as I look in the mirror. Its presence is haunting the edges of my mirror; I can barely stand to look in it. I quickly grab an offering from my closet and dash downstairs to the cabinet. I check the time. 6:37 am. Good a time as any, I think—I can’t stand waiting until 8:00. I set the offering down and open the cabinet. One. Two. I close it.

I thought the dread would leave me now, once I gave it what it wanted, but it only got worse. There’s something else, too. Hunger? Not mine, but I can feel it in the air as if it were mine. It isn’t satisfied. The air feels thicker, I want to choke. Everything around me—in me feels wrong somehow. I run upstairs to my room in hopes of finding comfort or separation from the suffocation I feel. This place isn’t safe, not right. It wants more and more and more and anything I give it won’t be enough. I make it to the room and slam the door. I turn and am face to face with the mirror on the wall. It’s still there—no, it’s so much worse. The monster is fully in the mirror and it’s all I can see, all I can feel. The monster is clawing at the mirror from within, and I can feel its need for more. I open my closet and grab every little trinket I can, I set them all outside my bedroom door and quickly shut it again. No. That wasn’t right. I can feel its presence screaming in my head. The walls are even closer now. I swear they are. I open the door again and see my offering scattered across the floor as if thrown in rage. The cabinet. I have to open the cabinet. Why did I allow myself to drop these offerings as if they were nothing? I have to set them on the counter or else they mean nothing. I have to open the cabinet or else it all means nothing. I pick up my trinkets and sprint to the kitchen. I scatter the offerings on the counter. I open the cabinet. One. I can barely think, I can barely breathe. Two. I shut the cabinet and dash back up to my room.

My room is a wreck, my found bracelet is gone once again from the tray on my desk, all of my folded clothes are thrown back on the floor as I’d previously left them. Every good thing it had ever done in return for the offerings was ruined. I felt its presence everywhere. It was still in the mirror—the only thing I could see. It felt like the house was breathing; my walls were humming with its impatience and unsatiated need. It wanted more. I grabbed the books from my shelves, my jewelry, everything I ever cared about. But I could feel the rejection. It isn’t enough. It wants something more. I can hear it scratching the mirrors—the sound is overwhelming. I take the mirror off its hook on the wall and throw it across my room; the loud shattering of glass makes me want to scream. I can’t get rid of it. I only wanted to become its friend, to have it accompany me during my quiet days alone. I never thought its greed could become so destructive. I felt the walls shaking around me and closing in closer and closer. I screamed but I could barely hear it over the humming of the walls and the scratching on the bathroom mirror down the hall. I got up and sprinted back to the kitchen. I opened the cabinet. One. Two. I closed it. Take me. Take me. Take me. Just make it stop. I don’t care if there’s nothing left of me, I just want this to end.