Amara had a problem. A problem so profound, so mystifying, that it had plagued her for years. Every time she did laundry, at least one sock mysteriously vanished.
At first, she thought it was carelessness. Maybe she’d dropped them, maybe they got stuck in the washer. But after five years of living alone, buying endless pairs of socks, and watching them disappear one by one, she knew—something sinister was at play.
And tonight, she was going to find out.
Armed with a flashlight, Amara positioned herself in front of the washing machine. She threw in a single pair of socks, shut the lid, and crouched low, eyes narrowed. The machine hummed to life.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The spin cycle started. Amara felt her pulse quicken.
The machine whirred loudly, and suddenly—the lid jerked open. Amara gasped. A tiny hand reached out. It was green, scaly, and had three clawed fingers. The creature stared at her with wide, startled eyes.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then, in one swift motion, the tiny goblin snatched a sock from the machine, stuffed it into its mouth, and disappeared into the drain pipe.
Silence.
Amara blinked. "You have GOT to be kidding me."
She stared at the open washing machine. The remaining sock lay inside, utterly alone.
She exhaled sharply, stood up.