A pest-control gadget that had somehow ended up here?
Or something even more obscure—an object from a toy set, a science kit, or some forgotten project that no longer existed in complete form.
The longer I looked at it, the more unsettling it became simply because I could not place it.
That is what darkness does, I realized in that moment—it removes context. And without context, even harmless objects can feel unfamiliar, even threatening.
I stood up slowly, still holding it, feeling an odd tension settle in my chest. The house around me seemed quieter than before, as if the silence had thickened while I wasn’t paying attention. I walked down the hallway carefully, one hand out in front of me, the other gripping the strange blue object like evidence I didn’t yet understand.
The darkness made everything feel slightly unreal.
When I reached my son’s room again, I hesitated at the doorway for a moment before stepping inside. He was asleep, completely unaware of the blackout, his breathing steady and unbothered by the chaos the house had fallen into. For a second, I almost felt guilty waking him—but curiosity had already taken over.
I gently shook his shoulder.
He stirred slowly, blinking into the darkness, disoriented.
“I need you to tell me what this is,” I said softly, raising the object into the dim light of my phone.
