It started as an accident.
Michael had bought a carton of milk one evening after work, tossing it into his fridge without much thought. He lived alone, worked late, and barely had time to cook. The milk was supposed to go with his coffee, but he always forgot. Days turned into weeks, then months. Eventually, it just became one of those things—an object ignored, blending into the background of daily life.
Then, one evening, as he reached for a beer, he noticed it.
The carton sat in the back of the fridge, bloated and misshapen. The expiration date had long passed, the ink on the label faded. A faint, sour smell wafted up when he moved other items around it. He wrinkled his nose but didn’t throw it away. Tomorrow, he thought.
Tomorrow never came.
The next morning, the smell had gotten worse. Not just spoiled dairy—something rancid, like decay mixed with damp earth. Michael made a mental note to toss it after work. But when he got home, something was off.
The smell had spread beyond the fridge. It lingered in the air, thick and musty. He opened the fridge door and froze.
The carton wasn’t there.
At first, he thought he was mistaken. Maybe he had already thrown it away and forgotten. He checked the trash can. Empty. He searched the counters, the sink, even the cabinets. Nothing.
That night, he dreamed of something moving inside the fridge—something with too many limbs, shifting and writhing in the cold.
He woke up to a sound.
A wet, slithering sound.
His heart pounded as he turned on the light. His stomach dropped.
The carton was sitting on the kitchen table.
Its once-white surface had turned grayish-green, veins of dark mold pulsating beneath the soggy cardboard. A thick, yellowish liquid oozed from the seams, pooling onto the wood.
Michael stared at it, his breath shallow. Had he put it there? Maybe he was sleepwalking. Maybe—
The carton moved.
It shifted an inch, ever so slightly, as if breathing.
Panic surged through him. He grabbed a plastic bag, wrapped it around the carton, and shoved it into the trash. He took the entire bag outside, dumping it into the alley dumpster. The cold night air stung his face, but relief washed over him. It was gone.
Or so he thought.
The next morning, the smell was back. Worse than before.
With dread creeping up his spine, he walked into the kitchen.
The carton was back on the table.
The plastic bag was gone.
This time, the carton had changed. It was larger, misshapen, its surface stretching as if something inside was pushing outward. The whispers started then—faint, indecipherable. They came from inside the carton.
Michael had had enough.
He grabbed the carton with gloved hands, barely able to hold onto its slick surface, and ran
