The Thing in the Bucket

The hatching happened at teatime.

Arthur had placed the obsidian egg in a galvanized steel bucket near the stove. He was in the middle of knitting a scarf (emerald green, purl stitch) when a wet *pop* echoed through the kitchen.

He looked down. The shell had dissolved into a black sludge. Sitting in the bucket was a blob.

It was amorphous, the color of a moonless night, with the consistency of thick pudding. It had retracted its eyes, presenting a smooth, harmless surface.

"Hello," Arthur said, leaning over the bucket.

The blob extended a tentacle. It was tentative, wavering in the air like a curious worm. It tapped Arthur’s nasal cavity (he lacked a nose).

"Personal boundaries," Arthur gently scolded, pushing the tentacle away.

The blob cooed. It was a sound like bubbles popping in thick mud. *Bloop. Squish.*

"Squish," Arthur nodded. "A fitting name. Unoriginal, perhaps, but descriptively accurate."

Squish seemed to like the name. It vibrated happily. Then, with terrifying speed, it flowed out of the bucket and onto the floor.

"No, no," Arthur said, standing up. "Stay."

Squish did not stay. Squish discovered the Persian rug.

It didn't walk; it flowed. It enveloped the corner of the rug. There was a sizzling sound, followed by a faint burp. The corner of the rug was gone. Not eaten—erased.

"That was an heirloom!" Arthur gasped. He grabbed a broom. "Bad Squish! We do not consume matter!"

Squish rippled. It looked... ashamed? It retracted into a ball, shielding its nonexistent face with a pseudopod.

Arthur sighed. He lowered the broom. He felt a pang in his chest cavity—a phantom sensation where his heart used to be.

"It is alright," Arthur said softly. "I suppose red dye is appetizing."

He reached into the pantry and pulled out a jar of pickled void-herring. He had kept them for decades, mostly out of habit. He popped the lid and held out a fish.

Squish extended a tentacle, snatched the fish, and absorbed it instantly.

"Better?" Arthur asked.

Squish purred. The sound rattled the teacups on the shelf.

Arthur sat back down in his chair. He picked up his knitting needles. Squish slithered over to his feet and settled there, a warm, vibrating weight against his ankle bones.

Arthur looked at the creature. He remembered the screams of the capital city when he had opened the Gate of Delirium three centuries ago. He remembered the fire. He remembered the feeling of absolute power, and the crushing, icy hollowness that followed.

He looked at Squish, a creature born of that same madness, currently nuzzling his shin.

"We are both monsters, aren't we?" Arthur whispered. "At least you have an excuse. You're just a baby."

Squish extended a tiny eye on a stalk and blinked at him. It looked innocent.

Arthur went back to knitting. For the first time in three hundred years, the kitchen didn't feel quite so large.