Date the pale, gangly, fish-eyed goon-thing that lives behind the medicine cabinet. It only slithers out at night to unfold it’s quintuple-jointed limbs after a long day’s cyst-hibernation, but you can never hear it do this. It doesn’t let you hear it’s raspy gasps, it’s dribbling moans. It doesn’t want to freak you out. All it really does once it’s out is rotate your shower soap exactly 90 degrees with all 200 of its dry and cracked micro-phalanges, always seeping some sort of invisible viscous fluid from them. It’s technically everywhere in your bathroom, coating the walls, but you can’t perceive it. It likes to think that it is helping in some way, keeping your soaps in the “correct orientation”, even if you never notice. Sometimes, on special nights, it leaves the bathroom, silently shambling down the hall towards your room, it’s squalid scarecrow body convulsing like a huge overflowing vein as it goes. It comes to your room. It crouches down and looks in through the crack between your door and its frame. It stares at you while you sleep, a complete absence of sound accompanying it. It thinks of you as unfathomably beautiful.
It leaves after precisely 6 and ½ minutes. It squeezes it’s boneless, cartilage-body back behind the medicine cabinet, falling into blissful catatonic hibernation until the next night. It dreams of alien, squamous things, but more than often, it dreams of your face.