The air inside the abandoned greenhouse was thick with the scent of rotting orchids. Samuel wiped his brow, greedily eyeing the heavy porcelain pot resting on the pedestal. He had heard stories—whispers that things left there should remain untouched—but the pot was old, valuable. Meant for him.
As he reached out, a cicada buzzed loudly from the rafters, its droning cry pressing into his skull. His fingers hovered over the cracked surface. He hesitated. His mind flickered back to the neighbor’s dog, how it had stopped at the threshold, tail between its legs. But rare antiques meant big money.
Lifting the pot, he sighed in relief—nothing happened.
Then his hands burned. No—moved. The porcelain pulsed, cold and wet, as fingers, impossibly long, curled over his wrists. The pot split like flesh, revealing a black, gaping mouth. A wet, sucking noise filled the room.
Samuel tried to scream. Instead, the pot swallowed him whole.
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