Author: Marion Lougheed

Sandy poked at the sticky substance on the living room floor. How many times was this stuff going to reappear? She looked at the ceiling, the plush couch, the walls, as if this time she’d pinpoint its origin.

With a sigh, she scraped it off the fake hardwood with a butter knife, then tossed the gunk in the trash. Like green gum, but not gum. It smelled like rotting grass.
When she returned to the living room, the goo had reappeared.

Angry heat shot through her. It was impossible, and yet there it was. This time when she scraped it up, she dropped the goo in a plastic container and carefully sealed it. She stuck duct tape around the lid to ensure no air — or goo — could escape.

The lab test told her little. Some kind of organic matter akin to cellulite. Like fat? She moved her rug to hide the spot where the goo had once again reappeared. Within a week, the whole floor was covered. The goo was crawling up the baseboards.

She closed the door to the living room. There was no lock, so she dragged the chest of drawers from her bedroom to block the way. At least it was contained.

A few days later as she was getting dressed for work, she dropped an earring. It scuttled beneath the bed. She knelt down to feel for it. A familiar grassy smell met her nose, and her groping fingers touched a sticky substance.

That evening, she locked the house door, loaded her suitcase into her car, and followed the signs to the nearest highway.