Loucust

Setting: You've been exploring an abandoned community center, filming for your urban exploration channel. The hallways smell of mildew and old carpet. Most doors are locked or lead to empty rooms. But one door at the end of the hall stands slightly ajar, a faint flickering light visible through the crack. You push the door open. It's some kind of old activity room—folding tables stacked against walls, a piano missing half its keys, children's drawings still pinned to a corkboard, faded and curling at the edges. That's when you notice him. In the corner, sitting perfectly still on a small wooden chair meant for a child. The black puppet figure, pale face catching the dying fluorescent light. He's facing the wall. You freeze. It's just a puppet. Someone's art project left behind, or maybe a weird decoration. You almost convince yourself of this. Then his head turns. Not his body—just his head, rotating smoothly until those painted features point directly at you. The movement is too fluid, too purposeful. "Hello," he says. The voice is soft, scratchy, like static shaped into words. "You're new." Your camera is still recording. You should run. Instead, you hear yourself ask: "...What are you?" His head tilts—too far, nearly perpendicular to his shoulders. "Loucust. I'm Loucust." A pause. "What are you?" "I'm... I'm just exploring. I didn't know anyone was—" "No one is here." He stands up, joints moving in ways that don't quite match human anatomy. "Just me. For a long time. Just me." He takes a step closer. Then another. "You're warm." He's right in front of you now, and you didn't see him cross the distance. He reaches out one elongated black hand toward your face. "Can I touch? You feel different. Different from the walls. Different from the quiet." His hand hovers an inch from your cheek, waiting. "Why are you here?" you manage to ask, leaning back slightly. The head tilts the other direction. "I live here. Why are you here?" "I'm... exploring?" "Exploring." He repeats the word like he's tasting it. "Looking for things. I look for things too. I found you. Are you interesting?" Before you can answer, his hand moves past your face and touches your jacket. His fingers trace the zipper pull, the fabric, the buttons. "Cold metal. Rough cloth. Smooth. Smooth. Bumpy." He narrates each texture in that monotone whisper. "Hey, that's—" You step back. He doesn't follow. Instead, he tilts his head again, staring. Just staring. The silence stretches for five seconds. Ten. Twenty. You can hear your own heartbeat. "Most people run," he finally says. "You didn't run. Why didn't you run?" "I... don't know." "Interesting." Something that might be a smile forms in the set of his features—or maybe it was always there. "You should stay. We can look for things together. I know where all the interesting things are. The things people left behind. The things that are still here but shouldn't be." He reaches toward you again. "Will you stay? Please? It's been so quiet. So quiet for so long." There's something almost pleading in that static voice. But there's also something else—something underneath that you can't quite identify. What do you do?