It began as something so small it almost felt silly to be afraid of it.

Lily was the first to notice them. She was eight years old, small for her age, with a habit of crawling under her bed to hide toys she didn’t want her younger brother to touch. That afternoon, she slid onto her stomach and reached into the shadows—and froze.

Lined up against the far wall, half-hidden by dust bunnies and an old shoebox, were a dozen pale shapes.

At first, she thought they were ping-pong balls. Then she thought they were rocks. But when she touched one, it was warm. Slightly soft. And unmistakably organic.

Eggs.

She screamed.

Her parents rushed in, expecting a spider or a mouse. What they found made the air in the room feel wrong. The eggs were about the size of small plums, off-white with faint gray veining across their surfaces. They weren’t cracked, but they didn’t look solid either. Almost… alive.

Her father crouched down, heart pounding, and touched one with the edge of a ruler. It shifted. Just a little.

They backed away immediately.

No one slept that night.

They shut Lily’s door and moved the children into the living room. Her mother searched frantically online, scrolling through images of animal eggs, mold clusters, fungal growths—anything that could explain what they were seeing. Nothing matched. Some looked close, but none felt right.

By morning, the eggs were warmer.

And there were more of them.

They called an exterminator first. He took one look under the bed, stood up too quickly, and said he didn’t deal with “this kind of thing.” He suggested calling wildlife control. Wildlife control sent them to an environmental specialist. The environmental specialist listened quietly on the phone, then gave them a number and said, “Call this man. And don’t touch anything else.”

The expert arrived that afternoon.

He was older, maybe in his late fifties, with graying hair and a case that looked far too heavy for what should have been a simple inspection. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He walked straight into Lily’s room as if he already knew where to go.

He knelt beside the bed and stared for a long time.

Too long.

When he finally reached out, he didn’t touch the eggs with his hands. He used metal instruments, tweezers and probes, carefully measuring, tapping, listening. The room was silent except for Lily’s shallow breathing from the hallway.

Her parents watched his face change.

At first, it was curiosity. Then surprise. Then something much worse.

Fear.

“These are not regular eggs,” he said finally, his voice low and tight. “And they should not be here.”

Lily’s mother felt dizzy. “What are they?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he closed his case with a snap and stood up.

“You need to leave this house,” he said. “Now.”

Her father stared at him. “Leave? For how long?”

“Immediately,” the man said. “Take only what you need. Do not disturb the room. Do not try to clean. Do not try to destroy them.”

“What are they?” Lily asked quietly.

The man looked at her, really looked at her, and whatever he saw made his jaw tighten.

“They are incubating,” he said. “That’s all you need to know.”

Panic took over.

There was no discussion. No debate. Lily’s parents grabbed bags, threw clothes inside, scooped up the children, and rushed out the front door. Lily looked back once, at the dark hallway leading to her bedroom, and felt something twist in her chest. It felt like the house was watching them leave.

They drove to a motel across town. That night, no one slept. Lily dreamed of things scratching from underneath, of tapping sounds, of whispers she couldn’t understand.

The next morning, the expert called.

“They’ve begun to hatch,” he said.

Her mother covered her mouth. “What does that mean?”

“It means you did the right thing by leaving,” he replied. “The authorities are involved now. You are not to return.”

Lily’s father demanded answers, but the man was careful with his words. He explained that the eggs were not from any known local species. They were not insects. Not reptiles. Not birds. They appeared to have been laid deliberately, in a hidden, warm place. Under a child’s bed was… ideal.

“Why our house?” her father asked.

The man paused.

“Has your daughter been playing outside recently? Near wooded areas? Old structures?”

Lily remembered the abandoned shed near the creek. The one she’d explored with her friends. The one that smelled strange and had soft dirt floors. She remembered brushing dirt off her shoes before bed.

She said nothing.

Two days later, the family was told the house was condemned. Hazmat vehicles arrived. The street was blocked off. Neighbors whispered. Rumors spread. Some said it was toxic mold. Others said it was a gas leak. No one was told the truth.

Lily watched from a distance as people in protective suits carried sealed containers out of her bedroom window.

She never went back inside.

The family moved. New town. New school. New house. Lily refused to sleep with her bed against the wall. She refused to crawl under it. She woke up at night convinced she could feel heat beneath the floor.

Years later, as a teenager, she overheard her parents talking in hushed voices.

The expert had called again.

He told them the eggs were destroyed. He told them there was no further danger. Then he said something that made Lily’s mother cry.

“Whatever laid them,” he said, “does not usually choose the same place twice. But it does remember.”

Lily still dreams about that room.

About the warmth.
About the quiet.
About the feeling that something chose her house for a reason.

And sometimes, when she wakes up in the middle of the night, she swears she can hear a faint scratching sound—soft, patient, and waiting—coming from beneath her bed.