It was one of those evenings when the air had gone oddly still, like even the breeze had decided to call it a day and collapse on the sofa. I had just settled in with a lukewarm cup of tea and a biscuit that tasted faintly of regret when there was a knock at the door. Not a loud, urgent knock. No, this one was strangely dainty—three soft taps, evenly spaced, like a polite woodpecker unsure of itself.
I hesitated. No one in their right mind visits at 9:17pm unless they're selling religion or drama. Or both. I tiptoed to the door, peeped through the spyhole, and was immediately annoyed to see... nothing. Empty corridor. Except—wait. There. Just to the left. Standing slightly out of view, as if playing hide-and-seek with my common sense, was a small man in a long brown coat. He looked like a detective who moonlighted as a librarian. Thin, with limbs that seemed a bit too bendy for comfort, and a face that was both forgettable and unforgettable, depending on the light.
"Yes?" I called through the door, gripping my mug like a weapon.
He leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Good evening. Might I come in for a moment?"
Might you? What was this, Jane Austen's lost novel of weird intrusions? My first instinct was to say no. My second instinct was also no, but with more swearing. And yet, something about him—his voice, perhaps, which sounded like warm honey drizzled on paranoia—made me pause.
"It's a bit late, isn't it?" I said.
"Time is a social construct," he replied.
Oh God, a philosopher. But curiosity got the better of me, as it always does when I'm bored and under-caffeinated.
I opened the door halfway. "You've got one minute. No shoes inside."
He glided in. Not walked. Glided. As if his feet and the floor had decided on a mutual no-contact policy. He didn't smile, but his eyes danced like he knew a joke I hadn't heard yet.
"Thank you," he said, scanning my flat as if checking for architectural weaknesses. "Cosy."
"Thanks. It's inspired by 'financial instability meets emotional damage'. Tea?"
"No, thank you. I don't... consume in that way."
Right. That wasn't alarming at all.
He sat down on the edge of my armchair, very upright, like he'd never actually relaxed in his life. "I won't keep you long. Just wanted to meet you. I've watched you for some time."
"Excuse me?"
"Observed, I should say. From a distance. Admired, really. You have a fascinating stillness."
"I'm unemployed," I clarified. "That's not stillness. That's Netflix-induced paralysis."
He nodded solemnly, as if I had shared something profound. "Still, you have a certain... flavour."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Presence," he corrected. "Flavour of presence. A unique signature."
This man was unhinged. Probably harmless, but artistically deranged.
"Is this a prank? Is there a camera? Am I going to be on one of those YouTube channels that makes fun of introverts with anxiety and poor lighting?"
He smiled for the first time. It wasn't comforting. It was the smile of someone who knew where your spare keys were.
"No prank. Just a visit. A tiny interaction. A sampling, if you will."
He stood suddenly, moving closer. I stood too, clutching my tea like a crucifix. "Right, I think that's quite enough sampling for one evening, Mr..."
"You can call me Guest."
Of course I can.
"Look, Guest, you've had your moment. I let you in. We've spoken. You've insulted my career and flirted with my furniture. Now kindly glide your unnerving self out."
He looked at me with something close to sadness. Or hunger. Hard to tell.
"Just one moment more," he said, reaching towards me.
I swatted instinctively. Not sure why. Maybe it was the way he moved—too fast, too floaty. And then—a sting. A sharp, pinpoint sting near my neck.
"Ow!" I yelped, slapping at it. He recoiled, lips twitching. "Did you just bite me?!"
"Taste," he whispered. "Only a drop."
"You absolute lunatic!"
He stepped back, satisfied. "Delicate. Complex. Slightly anxious aftertaste. Beautiful."
I was ready to hurl my mug. "Out! Now!"
He bowed slightly, coat fluttering though there was no breeze. As he walked to the door, he turned. "Most don't feel it. You should be proud."
And with that, he vanished into the night.
I slammed the door, locked it, bolted it, and threw a chair in front of it for good measure. I touched the spot on my neck. Slightly itchy. No blood. Just a small bump.
I barely slept.
The next morning, I sat groggily at my table, Googling "how to tell if you've been bitten by a philosophical vampire" when I noticed something. A tiny smear on the windowsill. Very faint. Two little spots. Like crushed... wings?
No. Couldn’t be.
I replayed the night. The gliding. The eyes. The odd way he seemed to vibrate in place. The taste talk. The bite. The bizarre urge I had now to sleep under a net and hum near water.
And then it hit me.
The stranger wasn’t a man. Not truly.
He was a mosquito.
An unusually poetic, highly articulate, fashionably dressed mosquito.
I had let a mosquito into my flat. Offered him tea. Engaged in philosophical banter. And been tastefully sampled like a vintage wine.
The knock, the coat, the presence—all a clever ruse. An elaborate, six-legged con.
And the worst part?
He was right.
I did have a fascinating stillness.
Bloody hell.
Next time, I’m answering the door with a can of bug spray and less existential openness.
React
