Trasgo

Preparing for weekend events had been Kendi’s routine since childhood. She loved tagging along with her mother, setting up pop-up tents, hauling supplies, and helping wherever needed.

But since they moved into the old house, things kept going missing or turning up in the wrong place.

Her mother blamed her, of course. Only the two of them lived there. Who else could be responsible?

The garage was her mother’s domain, impeccably organized: containers neatly labeled, ladders stacked in one corner. Kendi rummaged through a storage tub, pushing fall decorations aside as she searched for the chalk box. 

“It’s not here either!” she called toward the house.

“Keep looking!” her mother shouted back. “We don’t have time to go to the store, or we’ll lose our loading spot.”

Kendi snapped the lid shut. “I swear I put it away here last time,” she muttered, opening another container.

Thirty minutes later, they were driving to the event, forced to stop at a general store for fresh chalk. Her mother complained the entire way, throughout the event, and during the drive back.

Once home, her mother began unloading the supplies. “Go change for dinner. I’ll order takeout.”

Kendi rolled her eyes and retreated to her room. 

After a long shower, she sat on the bed, drying her hair, a yawn escaping her—until something on her nightstand caught her attention.

The missing chalk box.

What the hell?

She snatched it up, turning it over in disbelief. It was the same one she’d spent all morning searching for. Yet she knew with absolute certainty it hadn’t been there when she woke up.

“Mom?” Kendi called out, dropping her towel on the floor.

“Yes?”

She hesitated, then slipped the chalk box into her nightstand drawer.

“Nothing.”

Dinner passed normally enough, her mother discussing logistics for the next event while Kendi’s mind drifted back to the misplaced objects that kept reappearing in odd places.

Mom was right. I must have taken it.

That night, she went to bed late, her mind racing as she tried to make sense of the strange disappearances.

A faint dragging sensation on her wrist woke her—a dry, scratchy touch, like long fingernails brushing against her skin.

Kendi’s brows furrowed as she tried to pull away, but the fingers tightened around her hand. She grunted, twisting to break free, and that was when she heard it: a raspy, irritated murmur right beside her ear.

She tried to scream, but no words came out, as if her voice were trapped in her throat. A heavy weight pressed down on her chest, pinning her into the mattress.

“Stop,” Kendi whispered, panicking. “Let me go.”

She thrashed, trying to shake the clawed grip. Something yanked her wrist, pulling her toward the edge of the bed. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her breathing turned shallow and quick. No matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t open her eyes.

Desperate, Kendi dragged her free hand across her body and slammed it against whatever held her wrist.

The instant her skin made contact, her eyes snapped open. 

A dark shadow darted downward, vanishing beneath the bed.

Kendi bolted upright, clutching her chest. She reached out with trembling fingers and switched on the lamp. The warm light flooded the room, but there was no one there. She dropped to her knees and peeked under the bed.

Nothing.

“Just a nightmare?” she mumbled.

Over the next month, the disappearances grew more frequent, sparking daily arguments between Kendi and her mother. The nightmares returned several times a week—always the same clawed fingers trying to pull her from her bed. 

“I can’t sleep, Mom. Something keeps bothering me at night. Why won’t you listen?” Kendi had complained after another restless night. But her mother dismissed the nightmares as another ridiculous excuse for her carelessness. 

A few minutes later, Kendi overheard her mom talking with her dad on the phone. Kendi lingered outside the kitchen, listening.

“I don’t know, Peter,” her mother sighed. “She hasn’t taken the move well. Maybe it’s a phase? I thought moving over the summer would give her time to settle in. And working the events would help her earn money before senior year.”

“She’s staying home today,” her mother continued, switching on the coffee maker. “Could you bring her lunch? I have to leave in five minutes and will be back late.”

Kendi headed to her bedroom.

Of course she doesn’t believe me.

“Don’t wait up!” her mom shouted from the hallway. “Your father should bring you lunch.”

The front door clicked shut.

With a frustrated sigh, Kendi began organizing her room.

Hours later, sweat clinging to her forehead, she opened the last moving box. Nestled among her belongings was a pair of her mother’s favorite gold earrings.

“What are these doing in here?” She placed them on the nightstand and turned back to unpacking.

A scratching noise made her whip around.

The earrings were gone.

Kendi froze. She checked the floor, then crouched to inspect beneath the furniture.

Empty.

Her pulse quickened, the fine hairs along her arms rising.

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Kendi grabbed her laptop and headed into the backyard. She began researching old houses, hauntings, and vanishing objects. When her father stopped by with lunch, she brushed off his questions, claiming she was looking into colleges.

After he left, she headed to her bedroom and continued her search, sifting through stories of restless spirits, household curses, and unexplained disturbances.

One article, however, stood out.

“Trasgo…” she read softly, her eyes scanning the screen.

Mischievous household spirits known for hiding belongings, making noises, and tormenting residents. Never speak to them harshly, or the behavior may escalate. 

Further down the document, a peculiar remedy appeared.

To drive one away, assign it an impossible task.

A soft scratching resumed behind her.

Kendi turned.

The earrings had returned to the nightstand.

“You’re getting bold.” Kendi narrowed her eyes at the jewelry.

That evening, she placed a wide bowl of uncooked white rice on her desk, next to her laptop. Beside it lay a handwritten note.

Count every grain by morning, and you can keep the chalk and the earrings. You can’t spill the rice out of the bowl.

For the first time in weeks, Kendi slept peacefully. 

When morning came, she scrambled out of bed, eager to inspect her experiment.

The bowl remained where she’d left it, but scattered grains of rice littered the polished surface. A small pile had collected beside the base, as though someone had lost count and swept them aside in frustration.

Kendi checked behind her laptop and beneath the keyboard.

The note was gone.