The Unfastened Lobe

I’ve always been a creature of habit, especially when it comes to my body. Every night, before sleep, I’d run my fingers over the cool metal of my tunnels, ensuring they were secure. It was a ritual, a grounding tether to myself. But then, three weeks ago, the ritual was broken.

I woke to the pale light of dawn filtering through the blinds, my hand already at my ear. But there was nothing there. A cold wave of panic washed over me. I jerked upright, patting blindly, my fingers finding only the soft, unbroken skin of my earlobes. My tunnels were gone. I scrambled in the sheets, relief flooding me as my hand closed over the cold steel. They were there, lying innocently on the mattress, but something was horribly wrong. The backs were still screwed on.

That should be impossible. To remove them, I always had to unscrew the backs, even if they were loose. For them to just fall off, the backs would have had to be completely undone, and then they’d rattle, not just slip off. I checked my ears in the bathroom mirror, turning my head for any sign of a tear or cut. Nothing. Just the faint indentations where the jewelry had rested. I tried to laugh it off, blaming a restless night and clumsy hands, but the unease lingered like a foul taste.

The second time happened four nights later. I had been extra careful, double-checking before I closed my eyes. Yet, when I woke, they were gone again. This time, I didn’t even have to search. They were on the nightstand, neatly placed side by side, backs still on. A chill ran down my spine. This wasn’t clumsiness. This was deliberate.

I examined them under the bright light. The threads inside were pristine, no sign of forced turning. How could they unscrew themselves and travel? The logical part of my brain screamed for an answer, but the animal part knew something was wrong. I decided to test it. I put the tunnels in and tightened them with a satisfying click, then went about my day, but I was on edge. That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the dark, my back against the headboard, watching the clock, listening to the hum of the city outside my apartment.

As the hours crept past, I felt a strange, creeping drowsiness, like a heavy blanket smothering my thoughts. My eyelids drooped. I fought it, but my chin dipped to my chest. I don’t know how long I was under, but I woke with a start, my hand flying to my ear. Nothing. The bedside lamp was on. And there, on the nightstand, were my tunnels, sitting like two tiny, mute witnesses.

I picked one up, and the back fell off in my palm. It wasn’t just unscrewed; it was perfectly removed, as if by meticulous hands. A wave of revulsion washed over me. I looked around the room, the shadows in the corners seeming to deepen. ‘Who’s there?’ I croaked, my voice raw. No answer, just the hum of the refrigerator.

Then I noticed something else. On my wrist, a faint red mark, like a bracelet. I hadn’t worn anything to sleep. I stared at it, and a memory surfaced, not from this night, but from childhood, of my grandmother’s stories about the ‘Little Unfasteners’—creatures that slip into homes and undo things: buttons, zippers, knots, and especially the small, precious fastenings people wore to protect themselves. They were said to be invisible, but they left marks like the one on my wrist.

Panic surged. I tore off my pajamas, checking every inch of my body. There were more marks: small, circular impressions on my shoulders, my ankles, even the back of my neck. I felt violated, as if something had been studying me, mapping me. The next morning, I had a decision to make: wear the tunnels again and risk another visit, or leave them off and admit something was very, very wrong.

I chose to leave them off. I hid them in a steel lockbox, wrapped in cloth, at the bottom of my closet. But even as I did, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it didn’t matter. The thing that had taken them knew exactly where they were. That night, I placed a glass of water on my nightstand, as a test. If something was there, the water would be disturbed.

I didn’t sleep. I stared at the glass until my eyes burned. Around 3:33 AM, a faint sound, like the tiniest sigh, came from the glass. The water was trembling, forming concentric ripples, as if a breath had skimmed its surface. Then the ripples stopped. In that silence, I felt a presence, close and cold, leaning over me.

I held my breath, my heart pounding. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shimmer in the air, like heat haze. It moved. And then it was gone. I fumbled for the light, and the room was empty. But the glass of water was empty too. Bone dry, as if it had been drunk by something immaterial.

I never found my tunnels again. I sold the apartment and moved across the city. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I still feel a phantom pressure on my earlobes, and a faint whisper of cold air, as if something is inspecting the empty holes where they used to be. I don’t wear any jewelry anymore. But I still wake up with my hand on my ear, and I dread the morning when I’ll find a new mark on my skin, and the beginning of a new ritual.