Curse of the DDCs

My neighbour called them Damn Disgusting Creatures, and the name stuck. We referred to them as the DDCs.

They hid under our beds, in our closets. They ate our clothes as food and urinated in the coffee pot. We didn’t know where they shat, and we didn’t want to find out.

The consensus on them was that nobody could see them, but they were there. Always. We would make bets on how big they might be. We set traps to catch one. Never worked. We would put in old jackets as bait. The next morning, the jacket would be half-eaten and three yards away from the trap.

Some people we knew met them. Like the old jackets, these people would be found half-eaten, usually in the corridor. Never alive.

The DDCs were a new development, everyone agreed. We held a society meeting to figure out how to deal with them. We deliberated for five hours the first day, and all that we decided was that they were probably a government experiment gone wrong. I voiced a thought that was immediately struck from the record. I suggested that the experiment had worked just fine.