The Polka-Dot Intruder

The morning of the 14th of March was already strange. I was alone in the house, an old farmhouse converted into a gallery for my wife’s textile art. She was away at a supplier’s in the city, and I had the day to myself. The sun streamed through the tall windows, casting long, dusty beams across the wooden floors. I was in the kitchen, pouring a second cup of coffee, when a flicker caught my eye.

Behind the television, a tall, flat-screen propped on a low stand, something moved. At first, I thought it was a trick of light, a shadow cast by a passing car. But the shape was wrong. It was black, a liquid darkness that seemed to absorb the light around it. It was shaped like a crumpled human, about half the height of a man, but it moved with an unnerving fluidity. And then it turned its head toward me, and I saw the eyes.

Two pinpricks of brilliant white, like stars in a void, burned into me. And below them, a smile. A wide, impossibly wide grin, painted a bloody crimson, stretched from ear to ear or where ears would be. The smile was not a mouth; it was a gash, a wound in the darkness. It didn’t move, but I felt it laugh.

I froze. The thing lunged. It didn’t run; it flowed across the floor, a black tide that rippled and grew. It seemed to relish my fear. I screamed, a raw, primal sound, and scrambled backwards, knocking over a stack of fabric samples. My legs were shaking so hard I could barely stand. It reached the edge of the carpet and paused, its head tilting as if amused.

I remember shouting, ‘Get away!’ but my voice was thin. The thing took a step forward. I backed into the hallway, my heart hammering. The sun was bright, the light so strong it made the floor glare, but the shadow cast by the thing was deeper than any natural shade. It was as if it created its own eclipse.

I turned and ran for the stairs, my feet slipping on the polished wood. It followed, but not with the same rush. It moved like a predator toying with its prey. I scrambled up the steps, and when I reached the top, I looked down. It was at the bottom, looking up. The eyes were still bright, the smile wider if possible.

I slammed the bedroom door and locked it, leaning against the wood. My breath came in ragged gasps. The silence was total. Then, a soft scratching. It was on the other side of the door. I heard a sound like a low hum, a vibration that went through the floor. And then, the humming stopped.

I stayed in that room for hours, until the sun began to wane and the shadows grew long. When I finally mustered the courage to open the door, the hallway was empty. I checked every room, but there was no sign of it. I called my wife, told her not to come home yet, that I needed to sage the house.

She was skeptical, but she heard the fear in my voice. That night, I lit the sage and walked through every room, letting the smoke curl into every corner. I didn’t see the thing again, but I felt a presence. It was as if it had retreated, but not vanished. It was waiting.

A week passed. My wife returned, and we tried to go back to normal. But then, I started seeing the polka dots. At first, they were just in my peripheral vision, tiny black spots that vanished when I looked directly. But they grew. They became small, dark forms, like animated blobs, that would scuttle along the baseboards and hide behind furniture.

One night, I woke to see one sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at my wife. It had no face, just a smooth black surface, but I knew it was watching her. I didn’t scream; I was too terrified. I reached for the sage, always by the nightstand, and lit it. The thing recoiled and dissolved into the shadows.

My wife said she felt a cold draft, but she never saw the smaller ones. She thought I was having nightmares. I was not.

A month later, I was in the studio, working on a piece, when the big one appeared again. It was in the corner, half in the light, half out. The smile was gone. It just stared. I was older now, less fearful. I had grown accustomed to its presence, or so I told myself. I said, ‘What do you want?’

It didn’t answer, of course. But it pointed a long, black finger toward the ceiling. I followed its gesture and saw nothing. When I looked back, it was gone.

I’ve never seen it since, but I still feel it. The house has a weight to it, a pressure in the air. The sage burner is always lit now, and the smoke never fully clears. I told my wife I’m selling the place. She thinks I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. But I know what I saw. And I know it’s still here, somewhere, waiting for me to let my guard down.

Last night, I saw a polka dot in the sink. It grew into a small puddle of black, and for a split second, I saw the faintest suggestion of a smile in the water. I poured bleach over it, and it sizzled away. But the stain remained, as if burnt into the porcelain.

I don’t think I’ll ever be free of it. It’s attached to me now. The polka dots are its fingerprints, scattered through my life, marking the places it’s been. And I can almost hear it, a low hum, a vibration in the bones of the house, a constant reminder that I am not alone.