That morning, I went out into the yard as I always did — to water the flowers and feed the cat. The air smelled fresh after the night’s rain, and the earth was still damp beneath my shoes. 🌿 I wasn’t expecting anything unusual. But then, near the edge of the fence, something caught my eye — a patch of soil that looked… strange. It shimmered faintly in the sunlight, as if sprinkled with tiny pearls.
Curiosity took over. I knelt down and saw them: dozens of small, perfectly round white balls, glistening like dew drops. At first, I thought they were plastic beads — maybe from a broken toy. But as I looked closer, I felt my stomach tighten. They were too smooth, too alive. Something about them seemed wrong.
I fetched my gloves and carefully dug into the soil. The little spheres were soft, elastic — almost like gelatin. 😨 The moment I touched them, a faint, sticky trail appeared on my glove. That’s when a thought hit me like lightning: *eggs.* But whose? I scanned the garden, half expecting to see a nest or something moving in the shadows.
I carried a few of them to the porch table, where the light was stronger. Under the sun, I could see dark specks inside each orb — tiny shapes, almost like eyes. My heart raced. I thought of insects, snakes, even frogs. Then, from the corner of the yard, I noticed movement — a slow, deliberate motion.
A snail was making its way through the wet grass, leaving a glistening trail behind. 🐌 It crawled right toward the patch of disturbed soil, as if searching for something it had lost. Suddenly, everything clicked. These weren’t beads, and they weren’t from insects either. They were snail eggs — a whole clutch of them.
At first, relief washed over me. But it didn’t last long. I remembered how quickly snails could multiply, how they devoured leaves and flowers in a single night. I imagined the garden — once full of roses and herbs — overrun by slimy creatures. That thought made me shiver.
I decided to deal with it immediately. I took a small pot of boiling water and returned to the spot. The soil steamed as I poured it over the eggs. I knew it was necessary, yet I couldn’t shake the guilt that twisted in my chest. 😔 Life — even the smallest form — has its right to exist, doesn’t it?
Days passed, and I tried to forget about it. But nature, it seems, doesn’t forget so easily.
One evening, as I watered the plants, I saw movement again near that same patch. This time, it wasn’t snails. The earth had cracked slightly, and beneath it, something pale was glinting — round shapes again. “Not possible,” I murmured. I had destroyed them all.
I dug a little with my fingers and froze. The white spheres were back, but now they were slightly larger and pulsing faintly, as if something inside was breathing. My pulse quickened. I ran to get a flashlight and shone it on them.
To my horror, one of them twitched. The next moment, it burst open.
From inside, a thin, translucent shape crawled out — not a snail, not an insect, something in between. Its body shimmered, almost liquid, and it left no trail behind. It just… slithered silently into the grass. 😳
I stumbled back, dropping the flashlight. My cat, who had been sitting on the steps, hissed and ran inside. The rest of the eggs began to move. Some cracked, others quivered like tiny hearts. I didn’t wait to see more. I backed away, my breath shallow, and ran into the house, locking the door behind me.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak and rustle outside made me jump. I kept replaying that moment — the way the creature moved, the way its skin shimmered. At dawn, I forced myself to look outside again. The garden seemed normal. Too normal.
But then I saw the ground — the same patch — smooth and clean, as if freshly turned. Not a single egg remained. Only a faint shimmer, like a trail of light, leading toward the fence. I followed it with my eyes and saw something unbelievable: a small hole under the wood, big enough for something to crawl through.
Weeks went by. The flowers bloomed again, the cat returned to her lazy habits, and I began to believe it was all over. Until one morning, I found the same kind of white spheres — this time *inside* the pot where I kept my favorite indoor plant. 🌱
I felt my throat tighten. How could they be here? The soil was new, fresh from the store. I picked one up — it felt warm, as if it had a heartbeat. I dropped it immediately. I didn’t wait to see what would happen next. I packed my things and left the house for a few days.
When I came back, the pot was empty. But the plant — once small and fragile — had grown unnaturally fast. Its leaves glowed faintly under the light, and a thin layer of slime glistened at the edges of the pot. 😱
Now I avoid that room. Sometimes, at night, I hear faint scratching sounds, as if something is moving across the windowsill. And every morning, there’s a single white pearl-shaped ball waiting near the door.
I stopped trying to remove them. Some things, I realized, belong to nature’s deeper plans — the ones we aren’t meant to interrupt. 🌘
