Squatch Stories

One hall. One ceiling. One man who has lived in the loft longer than they have owned the floor.Downstairs the court is already loud. Paper crowns, plastic snouts, a roast that sounds like love if you’re related and like inventory if you’re not. Upstairs the trusses remember every laugh. The banquet sub thrums under the gravy. Cavities hold the soft places people stop looking at.They want a bigger bit this year. Something that uses the whole room.He gives them one.Tonight you’re in the hall while the preferred tenants learn the difference between a photograph and an exit.No credits. No lecture. Just the room.

Night shift. One hallway. One shared wall.A man who knows how a clean seam is supposed to sound.He patches the closet the way he always does—screw, mesh, mud, feather—until the fluorescent light stops catching a ridge. Then something starts keeping time under the paint. Soft. Regular. Too steady to be settling.He names it a compressor. A chime. A phone on vibrate. Each name buys him a few minutes.None of them last.Tonight you’re in the room with him while the building decides what it will and will not finish.No credits. No lecture. Just the wall.

Something this way comes

Something lurks in the woods.

We miss you.