Cousin It!

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. This was Aunt Marge’s only instruction before she left me in charge of her dusty old house for the weekend. The note had been left on the fridge, stuck with a faded magnet shaped like a pineapple. I chuckled at the melodrama of it all. What was behind that door? A portal to another dimension? A haunted treasure chest? Or—most likely—just a room filled with old junk and Aunt Marge’s questionable taste in antique furniture?

By the second night, curiosity had sunk its claws in. I tried to distract myself with TV, but every time I glanced down the hallway, the door seemed to loom closer. It almost seemed to be whispering—no, calling—my name. I told myself it was just the old pipes or my imagination running wild, but a voice in the back of my head kept saying, Come on, it’s just a door. What could possibly go wrong?

So, of course, I opened it.

The door creaked loudly, revealing nothing but darkness. I felt around for a light switch but found none, so I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness to reveal a narrow staircase leading down, winding deep into the earth. It seemed odd that Aunt Marge, with her terrible knees, would have a basement she never mentioned, let alone one so… creepy.

I ventured down, step by hesitant step, the air growing colder with each descent. At the bottom, I found a sprawling chamber filled with a mess of dusty boxes, old paintings, and cracked furniture. In the center of the room was a single large crate, almost like a coffin, with “CAUTION: DO NOT OPEN” stenciled across the lid.

“Seriously?” I muttered, rolling my eyes. This whole setup was like something out of a low-budget horror movie.

I gripped the lid of the crate, fully aware of the voice in my head that screamed Don’t do it! but I was already too far gone to heed its warning. The lid lifted with surprising ease, revealing… hair. Lots and lots of hair.

At first, I thought it was just a tangled mass of wigs stuffed into the crate, but then it began to move. The hair shifted and rose, taking shape until it stood at least five feet tall, a mound of thick, dark hair with no visible face. Then, two tiny eyes peeped through the strands.

It was alive.

“Cousin It?” I said out loud, incredulous.

The hairy creature squeaked and tilted its head as if acknowledging the name, then began to shuffle toward me. It didn’t speak—just made a series of odd gibbering noises and flailed its arms, which were, of course, also covered in hair. I took a step back, but Cousin It advanced, lifting one arm to wave at me excitedly.

“Okay, okay! Hi, Cousin It. Nice to meet you… I guess?” I stammered. The creature seemed harmless, but there was something unsettling about it, like a giant living dust bunny that had somehow gained consciousness.

Cousin It shuffled closer, reaching out with one hairy hand. Before I could back away, it patted my head like I was some sort of overgrown puppy. Then it promptly pulled out a comb from somewhere within its hairy mass and began brushing me.

“Uh, what are you doing?” I asked, but Cousin It just squeaked and kept brushing, its little eyes twinkling with what I could only describe as delight.

The brushing went on for what felt like hours. Cousin It would comb, then step back to examine me, shake its head, and start again. I had become its personal grooming project. At first, I found it mildly amusing, but by the fifth hour, I was about ready to lose it. I tried to retreat up the stairs, but Cousin It blocked the way, shaking its mop-like head as if to say, Not until I’m finished.

Finally, the brushing stopped. Cousin It reached back into its hairy depths and pulled out a small hand mirror, holding it up to me. I gasped. My hair had been styled into an absurd beehive that could only have been popular in the ‘60s. It was enormous and barely fit in the frame of the mirror.

“This is what you’ve been working on?” I exclaimed. “I look like a character from a Tim Burton movie!”

Cousin It squeaked happily, then shuffled over to a dusty wardrobe against the wall. It opened the doors to reveal an array of wigs, hats, and outfits, each one stranger than the last. With a gleeful gibbering noise, it grabbed a giant feathered hat and plopped it on my head.

“Okay, fun’s over!” I said, finally finding my resolve. I darted up the stairs, pushing past Cousin It, who made a disappointed noise. I slammed the door shut behind me and collapsed against it, my heart racing. The house fell silent once more.

When Aunt Marge returned two days later, she didn’t seem surprised to see my disheveled state or the faint smell of hairspray lingering in the air. “I see you met Cousin It,” she said with a smirk.

“You knew?!” I exclaimed. “You knew that thing was down there, and you didn’t warn me?”

“I did warn you,” Aunt Marge said, tapping the note still stuck to the fridge. “There was only one rule, dear: don’t open the door.”

I groaned, and as if on cue, the door creaked open just a crack, a little hairy hand poking out with a comb, inviting me back for round two.