The Bug That Touched Back

It started as an ordinary Sunday morning. I had plans—simple ones. Coffee, a hot shower, maybe finally cleaning out the cabinet under the sink where I was sure a civilization of dust bunnies had established democracy. Nothing extraordinary.

That was before I found it.

The bug.

I stepped into the bathroom, yawning, towel over my shoulder, half-awake. I turned the shower knob and waited for the water to warm. Then my eyes drifted lazily toward the bathtub.

That’s when I froze.

There it was—sitting like the final boss of all household pests. Brown, glossy, segmented like armor forged in some alien factory. The legs, twitching, hairy, thick as pencils.

Its antennae, short but purposeful, seemed to angle toward me as if it knew. And the size—good grief, the size! It wasn’t a bug. It was a beast. Easily as long as my forearm.

I stumbled backward against the sink, my heart skipping beats like a scratched CD. My rational mind tried to intervene: “No way. Bugs don’t get that big. It must be a toy, a prank. Someone left it here to scare me.”

But then—it moved.

Not much, just a lazy scrape of one leg against the porcelain, the way a cat stretches a paw in its sleep. That tiny gesture cracked my rational world wide open. This wasn’t plastic. This wasn’t rubber. This was alive.

Now, here’s the thing about me: I’m not usually squeamish. I’ve dealt with spiders, wasps, even once scooped a live mouse into a cereal box. But this—this was another category altogether. Yet some reckless curiosity, or maybe pure stupidity, rooted me to the spot.

I whispered out loud, “What are you?”

The bug didn’t answer, of course. It just sat there, glistening, looking like something that crawled straight out of a prehistoric swamp. I swear the air in the bathroom grew warmer, heavier, as if the creature was radiating its own climate.

I should have left. I should have closed the door, called an exterminator, or burned the whole house down. But instead, I crouched closer.

That’s when the unthinkable happened: I reached out my hand.

I can’t tell you why. Maybe it was the hypnotic shine of its shell, the slow rhythm of its breathing—yes, I could see it breathing—or maybe I just wanted proof it was real.

All I know is, one second I was trembling a safe three feet away, and the next, my fingertips hovered inches above its armored back.

And then I touched it.

The shell was warm. Not hard like plastic, but firm, smooth, and slightly yielding, like polished leather stretched over muscle. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the entire creature shivered under my touch, a ripple passing through its body. Its legs flexed. The sound—an awful, raspy hiss—filled the bathtub, vibrating against the tiles.

I jerked my hand back. My instincts screamed: run! But another part of me—the same reckless part that had pushed me to touch it—kept me frozen in awe. Because in that hiss, I heard something strange. It wasn’t just an animal sound. It was… deliberate. Like language.

And then it turned. Slowly, heavily, as if every movement carried ancient weight. Its head—black, featureless, alien—angled toward me. And though it had no eyes that I could see, I felt the undeniable sensation of being watched.

I whispered again, “What are you?”

The hiss came again, longer this time, and the vibration seemed to buzz inside my bones. A wordless reply. Not hostile. Not exactly. More like recognition.

For a long moment, we stayed like that: me crouched beside the tub, the creature regarding me in whatever way it could. Then, as if satisfied, it began to move.

The legs, spindly yet powerful, lifted its massive body inch by inch toward the drain. The plug was still pulled out, the metal ring clinking faintly as the bug tapped against it. To my astonishment, it began to fit itself down the hole. An impossible feat, yet its body compressed, reshaped, segmented armor sliding over itself like some nightmarish origami.

Within moments, half its body had disappeared into the drain. It paused, the last few legs and tail bristling above the porcelain. For one breathless second, I thought it might come back out. But then—with a final, echoing hiss—it vanished completely.

The bathroom was silent again.

I sat back hard against the floor, trembling, staring at the empty tub. My mind raced. Had I imagined it? No. I could still feel the warmth of its shell on my fingertips. I could still smell the faint metallic tang in the air.

And stranger still: my hand. Where I had touched it, the skin tingled, not unpleasantly. A subtle vibration, as if something unseen lingered beneath the surface.

That was yesterday.

Today, I woke with strange dreams lingering in my head—dark tunnels, vast colonies, an endless hum echoing beneath the earth. And all day long, the tingling in my hand has grown stronger, pulsing almost like a heartbeat.