The family enters the house
Family's New Shrink Ray
chapter 21
by
copier
· original author:
arca88
Debbie's plan was insane, but in the world of the microscopically small, logic had long since surrendered to necessity.
The vent was their only option. Derek assessed the rusty metal grate. The space between the slats was wide enough for them to squeeze through, but climbing the polished metal wall and then the grate itself was a climb worthy of Mount Everest.
"Come on, Nicole," Debbie said, lifting the shivering girl and placing her on Derek's shoulder.
They began the ascent. Rust flaked off beneath their fingers, leaving a dusty, orange trail. The metal was cold, and each step on the crisscrossing mesh was a battle of will against gravity. The air escaping from the vent was warm, stale, and laden with the unbearable scent of air freshener.
When they finally slid inside, they landed on the plush "Welcome!" doormat. To them, it was a shag rug, a labyrinth of black and red fibers where one slip could mean being trapped. They moved cautiously to the edge, where the polished linoleum of the basement stretched out like a vast gray desert.
The basement was a mausoleum of giant objects. Moving boxes, stacked against one wall, were cardboard towers reaching dizzying heights. Gym equipment covered with blue tarps stood like a sleeping mountain.
"This way," Derek whispered, pressing himself against the wall. The closest thing to safety came from the baseboards, which offered a small ledge and the necessary shade.
The silence of the basement wasn't peace; it was anticipation. Then they heard it. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound came from above, amplified by the wood and concrete structure: human footsteps. They were heavy, careless. The new inhabitants were moving.
"Watch out!" “—Lisa shouted, as a tremor ran through the floor. One of the footsteps echoed so loudly that a small matchbox near a corner slid, nearly falling on them.
They stumbled toward their only vertical escape route: the utility area, where dozens of electrical pipes and cables rose toward the first floor. It was a tangle of copper tubing and rubber insulation; a makeshift and dangerous scaffold.
Derek and Debbie worked together to hoist Nicole up, using an Ethernet cable as a rope. Lisa acted as the anchor. The climb was slow, exhausting, under the dim light filtering from an upper basement window.
They reached the first floor through a gap behind the washing machine. The risk was now a hundred times greater. There were tables, chairs (wooden cliffs), and the dreaded feet of humans.
They moved with the discipline of those who have learned that stillness is often the best defense. They crossed the vast expanse of the kitchen—the linoleum gleaming, wiped clean of crumbs, a testament to the newcomers' tidy habits—and climbed the main staircase, hugging the edge, using the dust that had settled in the joints of the wood for grip.
Finally, they reached the second floor, their former home, now unrecognizable.
The hallway smelled of detergent and air conditioning. The pictures on the wall, once familiar, had been replaced by abstract, impersonal prints.
"Derek's room was the third door on the left," Lisa gasped, pointing.
They dragged themselves across the carpet, which to them was a battlefield of high-pile fibers. They reached the threshold. The door was slightly ajar. A line of artificial light spilled into the hallway.
Debbie peered in first, then quickly retreated, her breath caught in her chest.
The site of his son's once cluttered teenage sanctuary, filled with comic books, video game posters, and old ham radio equipment, was now a little girl's bedroom.
Color was the first visual shock. The walls, once a deep blue, were now painted pale lavender. An enormous bed with a pink fabric canopy dominated the center, a structure that reached all the way to the ceiling. The floor was covered with a soft, white faux-fur rug, dangerous to move around on.
And then there were the things.
In the corner, where Derek used to have his desk, stood an elaborate dollhouse, as tall as a refrigerator, perfectly furnished. Nearby, a collection of brightly colored plastic horses (each the size of a real dachshund to them) were lined up on a shelf.
The room smelled of lip gloss and cheap cologne.
But the focus was on human activity. Sitting atop the pink bed, which resembled a raised platform, was a little girl. She was small, maybe eight years old, with ash-blonde hair tied in braids. She was engrossed in assembling a miniature building block set. Miniature. The irony hit Derek.
“My machine… where would it be?” Derek muttered, frantically peering under the door frame. His teleportation and shrinking machine, the reason for his entire odyssey, had to be somewhere in this room, possibly hidden under rubble.
But there was no rubble. The place was spotless.
Lisa knelt, her face pale.
“I don’t see it. They must have emptied the room before painting.” The chilling terror of the possibility that her life’s work, and her only key to returning to normal, had been dumped in a trash can, froze them both.
Suddenly, the girl on the bed let out a muffled cry of frustration.
“It doesn’t fit!” she squealed, and with an impatient gesture, she made a massive sweeping motion with her hand. A cascade of plastic blocks rained down from the bed. To the huddled family, the crash was deafening. A bright green block, about the size of a shoebox, bounced a couple of times and stopped right in the line of light, inches from Derek's head.
Panic gripped them. They needed to move. They needed to hide, to retreat deeper into the room to search, but the danger was imminent.
Debbie looked desperately around, searching for cover. Her gaze landed on a mundane, familiar object that stood like a protective tower in the corner, right at the foot of the bed.
It was a woven wicker laundry basket.
"To the wicker! Quick!" "—" Debbie hissed, and the little family launched into a desperate race, knowing that if the girl decided to get out of bed, or if a sudden movement of the carpet betrayed them, her tiny life would end under the sole of a sneaker.
The vent was their only option. Derek assessed the rusty metal grate. The space between the slats was wide enough for them to squeeze through, but climbing the polished metal wall and then the grate itself was a climb worthy of Mount Everest.
"Come on, Nicole," Debbie said, lifting the shivering girl and placing her on Derek's shoulder.
They began the ascent. Rust flaked off beneath their fingers, leaving a dusty, orange trail. The metal was cold, and each step on the crisscrossing mesh was a battle of will against gravity. The air escaping from the vent was warm, stale, and laden with the unbearable scent of air freshener.
When they finally slid inside, they landed on the plush "Welcome!" doormat. To them, it was a shag rug, a labyrinth of black and red fibers where one slip could mean being trapped. They moved cautiously to the edge, where the polished linoleum of the basement stretched out like a vast gray desert.
The basement was a mausoleum of giant objects. Moving boxes, stacked against one wall, were cardboard towers reaching dizzying heights. Gym equipment covered with blue tarps stood like a sleeping mountain.
"This way," Derek whispered, pressing himself against the wall. The closest thing to safety came from the baseboards, which offered a small ledge and the necessary shade.
The silence of the basement wasn't peace; it was anticipation. Then they heard it. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound came from above, amplified by the wood and concrete structure: human footsteps. They were heavy, careless. The new inhabitants were moving.
"Watch out!" “—Lisa shouted, as a tremor ran through the floor. One of the footsteps echoed so loudly that a small matchbox near a corner slid, nearly falling on them.
They stumbled toward their only vertical escape route: the utility area, where dozens of electrical pipes and cables rose toward the first floor. It was a tangle of copper tubing and rubber insulation; a makeshift and dangerous scaffold.
Derek and Debbie worked together to hoist Nicole up, using an Ethernet cable as a rope. Lisa acted as the anchor. The climb was slow, exhausting, under the dim light filtering from an upper basement window.
They reached the first floor through a gap behind the washing machine. The risk was now a hundred times greater. There were tables, chairs (wooden cliffs), and the dreaded feet of humans.
They moved with the discipline of those who have learned that stillness is often the best defense. They crossed the vast expanse of the kitchen—the linoleum gleaming, wiped clean of crumbs, a testament to the newcomers' tidy habits—and climbed the main staircase, hugging the edge, using the dust that had settled in the joints of the wood for grip.
Finally, they reached the second floor, their former home, now unrecognizable.
The hallway smelled of detergent and air conditioning. The pictures on the wall, once familiar, had been replaced by abstract, impersonal prints.
"Derek's room was the third door on the left," Lisa gasped, pointing.
They dragged themselves across the carpet, which to them was a battlefield of high-pile fibers. They reached the threshold. The door was slightly ajar. A line of artificial light spilled into the hallway.
Debbie peered in first, then quickly retreated, her breath caught in her chest.
The site of his son's once cluttered teenage sanctuary, filled with comic books, video game posters, and old ham radio equipment, was now a little girl's bedroom.
Color was the first visual shock. The walls, once a deep blue, were now painted pale lavender. An enormous bed with a pink fabric canopy dominated the center, a structure that reached all the way to the ceiling. The floor was covered with a soft, white faux-fur rug, dangerous to move around on.
And then there were the things.
In the corner, where Derek used to have his desk, stood an elaborate dollhouse, as tall as a refrigerator, perfectly furnished. Nearby, a collection of brightly colored plastic horses (each the size of a real dachshund to them) were lined up on a shelf.
The room smelled of lip gloss and cheap cologne.
But the focus was on human activity. Sitting atop the pink bed, which resembled a raised platform, was a little girl. She was small, maybe eight years old, with ash-blonde hair tied in braids. She was engrossed in assembling a miniature building block set. Miniature. The irony hit Derek.
“My machine… where would it be?” Derek muttered, frantically peering under the door frame. His teleportation and shrinking machine, the reason for his entire odyssey, had to be somewhere in this room, possibly hidden under rubble.
But there was no rubble. The place was spotless.
Lisa knelt, her face pale.
“I don’t see it. They must have emptied the room before painting.” The chilling terror of the possibility that her life’s work, and her only key to returning to normal, had been dumped in a trash can, froze them both.
Suddenly, the girl on the bed let out a muffled cry of frustration.
“It doesn’t fit!” she squealed, and with an impatient gesture, she made a massive sweeping motion with her hand. A cascade of plastic blocks rained down from the bed. To the huddled family, the crash was deafening. A bright green block, about the size of a shoebox, bounced a couple of times and stopped right in the line of light, inches from Derek's head.
Panic gripped them. They needed to move. They needed to hide, to retreat deeper into the room to search, but the danger was imminent.
Debbie looked desperately around, searching for cover. Her gaze landed on a mundane, familiar object that stood like a protective tower in the corner, right at the foot of the bed.
It was a woven wicker laundry basket.
"To the wicker! Quick!" "—" Debbie hissed, and the little family launched into a desperate race, knowing that if the girl decided to get out of bed, or if a sudden movement of the carpet betrayed them, her tiny life would end under the sole of a sneaker.
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November 12
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