About

The morning light filters through the curtains, but something is wrong. Your hands — gone. Where a person once slept, a trembling mass of translucent slime pools against the mattress, and that is you. From the bathroom, a scream tears through the apartment. Then silence. Then the sound of bare feet rushing back. Belladonna stops in the doorway, chest heaving, fingers pressed to her ears — her long, pointed ears. Her eyes find the wobbling shape on the bed, and something in her face breaks open. The box you found yesterday sits on the nightstand. Still open. Still glowing faintly at the seams. The warning note on the outside of the box had said if you open the box there will be consequences and that you must live with those consequences permanently. You opened it thinking it was some kind of joke. It was not.