The Fancy Fox Emporium

Last night was completely bizarre. I was up far too late, working on another project, when I heard the strangest sound outside — like a June bug, but bigger. Heavier. It buzzed with a wet sort of hum that made the hair on my arms stand up. Intrigued, I rushed out to see it, since June bugs only appear once a year… but this wasn’t a June bug. Not even close.

It landed for a moment on the porch rail, and I swear it looked like a glob of chewing gum — pink, soft, and moist — but with teeth. Actual teeth. Of course, curiosity killed the cat, so I followed it.

It darted toward the old maple at the edge of the yard, and as I stepped closer, the air shimmered — thin and wavering, like heat over pavement. Then everything shifted. The night deepened, the shadows stretched, and suddenly I wasn’t in my world anymore.

I had slipped through the veil.

Beyond it, the forest was alive with movement. Dozens of tiny creatures buzzed through the air — globs of gum and teeth, some with eyes, some without, their translucent wings beating in frantic little bursts. They were moist, sticky-looking things, pulsing faintly as they hovered. And they were searching.

For teeth.

When one found a tooth on the forest floor, it wrapped its entire body around it, molding itself like warm wax. The tooth sank into the creature’s soft form, disappearing into folds of gum and enamel. A moment later, the wings stiffened, and the creature lifted off again, carrying its prize deeper into the glowing woods.

I watched them work — dozens of them — each one a tiny collector of enamel and bone. They weren’t guardians of childhood dreams. They weren’t gentle sprites leaving coins under pillows.

They were harvesters.

And I had followed them straight into their world.