Residue
Part 1: The Junk File
(You chose: Something just really bizarre!)
They call our division Skunk Works and not because we’re building top-secret aircraft prototypes, but because no one else wants to touch the cases we get. The weird ones. The ones that don’t fit into any category.
You’d think I’m some kind of Fox Mulder, but I’m not. I don’t chase UFOs, little green men, ghosts, cryptids, or self-proclaimed time travelers. I get the leftovers. The junk cases.
I swear there’s joy in it. Somewhere.
This morning, the “junk” landed on my desk in the form of a half-inch-thick manila file:
Subject: Rural Livestock Deaths: Unexplained Residue
Filed by: Special Agent Copper.
According to the report, a farmer found three of his goats dead. No bite marks. No blood. Just covered in a thin crust of pa
le, powdery residue.
At first, I figure some local teenagers were bored enough to play serial killer with livestock. But then I read the second page.
The same residue was found inside the farmer’s house… smeared along the kitchen walls, dusted across his bedroom floor, even inside his dresser drawers.
The local cops wrote it off as a “domestic dispute gone weird.” Local farm wars perhaps. They think the farmer’s exaggerating, maybe settling some personal score. But in my experience, rural kids get drunk and tip cows. They don’t slaughter goats and dust your bedroom.
I’m about to toss the file onto the pass pile when I notice the last note, scribbled in the farmer’s own handwriting:
It’s not dust. It’s alive. I saw it move.
I close the file and sit back.
I think this might deserve a second look.
What do you do?
***
Part 2: Underwear Drawer Evidence
(You chose: Drive straight to the farm and see the scene for yourself.)
By the time I reach the farm, the sun is high enough to wash the fields in that too-honest daylight that makes everything look a little more run-down.
Farmer Tim Rogers greets me at the gate. Suspenders, weather-beaten face, same jeans he’s probably been wearing since Reagan was in office. I had a suspenders phase too—Mickey Mouse ones, over my sweatshirt. A 90s kid fashion crime.
He wastes no time leading me around the property, pointing out each place the strange residue appeared. The barn. The kitchen. The bedroom.
And then, grinning just a little too much, he says, “Even found some in my underwear drawer. Whatever it is… it’s a curious fellow!”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep a straight face. This is a serious matter. I remind myself to laugh about it later.
I take a small sample from each location, sealing the fine, pale substance into its own vial. Under the sunlight, it glints… not like dust, but like something crystalline. Whatever it is, it’s different.
Tim’s tone shifts when I mention Agent Copper.
“That one’s trouble,” he says. “Looked like the type who’d be in on those government tests—y’know, those planes they were spraying stuff with. LAC experiments. You think this is a cover-up?”
He’s staring at me like he expects an answer I can’t give. Not yet.
He tells me he woke early, like always, ready to start his day. But Molly, his goat who usually meets him at the porch, wasn’t there. He found her in the pen. Still. Covered in the residue. Whatever had come here had done it during the night.
Copper had been out here too, Tim adds, taking samples of his own. And, apparently, collecting the trail cam footage from the cameras mounted on the barns to watch for coyotes.
Why would he take the footage and not mention it in the case file?
***
Part 3: It’s Not Dust
(You chose: Head back to the lab and run some tests on the vials.)
The hum of the lab equipment is almost comforting. Almost.
Of course, I take a moment to chuckle about my farm visit. I mean… did he really have to open up his underwear drawer? Wow. And I thought I’d seen it all.
I lay the six vials out in a perfect line, each labeled with where I found them: barn door, kitchen wall, bedroom floor, dresser drawers, goat pen, and … yes … the underwear drawer.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, the powder almost shimmers. I slip on gloves, load a small sample into the analyzer, and watch the readout climb.
The results pop up fast, and they don’t make sense:
• Organic compounds I can’t match to any known soil, pollen, or mold.
• Trace metals that shouldn’t even occur together in nature.
• And a low-frequency resonance — a pulsing signature — still present in the sample.
That last one’s impossible.
I rerun the test. Same results.
The centrifuge whirs in the background, spinning one of the samples. My mind keeps circling back to Farmer Tim’s voice: It’s alive. I saw it move.
My email pings. The sender: Copper. Subject line: Status Check — Farm Incident.
The body is short. “Anything unusual in your initial results? I’d like to compare notes. Let’s keep this between us.”
I start typing back, but the overhead lights flicker. One of the vials rattles against the table… just a tiny tap.
Hm. Maybe that was probably just me bumping the table.
The powder from the bedroom floor sample is clumping. And I swear… I just saw it move.
It taps again. That WASN’T me!
***
Part 4: It Wants to Be Seen
(You chose: Put the clumpy sample under the microscope immediately.)
I slide the vial toward me, my gloves squeaking against the glass. Whatever’s in here isn’t acting like dust. It’s… reacting.
The microscope is already warmed up. I pop the vial’s lid and use a sterilized scoop to transfer a pinch of the pale powder to a slide. It clumps together like wet sand,
except it isn’t wet.
I adjust the focus.
Under magnification, the granules look crystalline, almost like fractured salt. But then… one shard twitches. Just a fraction of a millimeter, but enough to make me blink hard.
I lean closer. Another twitch. Then a slow, deliberate shift almost like it’s aware I’m watching.
The computer pings. An email from Copper.
Subject: Residue Case – Sensitive Findings
I’ve been reviewing my own samples. We need to talk. In person. Soon. Something’s not right.
My eyes flick between the email and the shifting particles under the lens. The air in the room feels heavier.
Another twitch. This time, two granules move in unison… then connect, fusing into a single, larger shard.
Whatever this is… it’s building itself.
The centrifuge beeps, its high-pitched whine fading into silence. I pull off my gloves just enough to check the time, then snap them back into place.
I lift the centrifuge lid, reaching for the first vial. It’s heavier. Too heavy. I’ve handled enough samples to know the weight by instinct, and these are nearly twice what I set inside. The powder inside each one sits higher in the glass, pressed against it like it’s grown during the spin.
I freeze, listening.
There’s a faint, irregular tap… tap… coming from somewhere in the room.
Not the microscope. Not the centrifuge.
I look down just in time to see a shard under the lens slide abruptly across the glass toward the edge of the slide.
It’s growing… and moving?!
The computer pings again.
Another email from Copper.
No greeting. No explanation.
Just six words:
“ONE MORE THING - KEEP IT CONTAINED.”
***
Part 5: Containment Protocol
(You chose: Seal the lab and initiate containment protocol. Then call Copper.)
I lunge for the wall panel and slap the red switch.
The lab doors hiss as they lock with a mechanical thud. Overhead, the ventilation kicks into overdrive, filtering the air. An automated voice chirps to life:
“Containment protocol activated. Biohazard Level 2 engaged.”
I grab my phone with gloved hands and dial Copper. Two rings. Three.
He answers, voice clipped. “You saw it too, didn’t you?”
“It moved,” I say. “It grew. The centrifuge samples doubled in weight. One just slid across the slide under its own power.”
There’s a pause, then: “Mine did the same. It’s reacting to observation. Microscopy speeds it up. Like it wants to be seen.”
The thought gives me the heebie-jeebies. “That’s not all. There’s a resonance… still active.”
“I know. We’ve been monitoring the frequency. We think it’s communicating—possibly even learning. That’s why I didn’t include the trail cam footage. You needed to see it with fresh eyes, uninfluenced.”
“You think it’s intelligent?” I ask, glancing back at the microscope.
The shard on the slide has multiplied. A delicate structure… almost snowflake-like… blooms outward, one branch at a time. I swear it’s forming shapes.
“I think,” Copper says slowly, “we’ve been calling it residue because we didn’t want to admit what it really is.”
I hesitate. “Then what is it?”
A pause. Then something soft, something awful:
“I think it’s a probe.”
Behind me, the overhead lights pulse. Once, twice. Then go out.
A low hum builds from the microscope’s base. My laptop screen flashes.
New text types itself across the screen:
“WE SEE YOU TOO.”
I freeze.
Then glance down when I feel something on my wrist.
A smear. Faint, pale, glittering against the soft skin of my wrist just below where my glove ends.
I don’t remember touching it.
I shouldn’t have touched it.
But it’s there. A single, delicate flake.
It pulses.
Just once.
End of Story 5.
