My heart was pounding as if I had just run for miles. Those tiny spheres wouldn’t leave my mind. It felt as though they were waiting for me to turn away, ready to do something else.

My first instinct was to grab a tissue, sweep them up, and throw them away. But my hand froze midair. There was a strange, almost primal feeling that I was about to interfere with something I shouldn’t. Something чужое — чуждое этому дому. I pulled out my phone and began searching frantically: “transparent balls near door frame,” “gel-like spheres moving inside,” “looks like eggs.”

The images that flooded my screen made my stomach drop. Some posts claimed they were insect eggs. Others blamed mold, fungus, or parasites. A few stories were far worse — people describing how similar discoveries ended with full apartment evacuations and professional decontamination. I could feel panic tightening around my chest.

Time dragged on unbearably slowly. Even when I moved to another room, my eyes kept drifting back toward the hallway, as if I could see the doorframe through the walls. Every faint sound — a creak, a click, the hum of electricity — made me flinch. The apartment no longer felt empty. It felt alert.

When night fell, I finally forced myself to go back. I turned on every light, pulled on rubber gloves, and stepped closer. That’s when fear turned into something sharper and colder.

There were more of them.

The spheres had spread into a thin, uneven line along the wall. Some were no longer perfectly clear. Inside several of them, I could see tiny dark spots — distinct, unmistakable. And when I leaned closer, I saw it again: a subtle movement, like a pulse.

My hands began to shake uncontrollably. Breathing felt difficult, shallow. I realized I couldn’t deal with this alone. Desperate, I messaged a biologist I once worked with and sent him the photos. The minutes before his reply felt endless.

“It’s not stuffing. And it’s not mold,” he wrote.
“And no — it’s not harmless.”

He called me shortly after and told me to sit down. His calm voice only made things worse. He explained that what I had found was a clutch of eggs belonging to a rare species of insect. They sometimes enter residential buildings through ventilation shafts, microscopic wall cracks, or old structural damage. Normally, they’re hidden in basements or attics. Seeing them inside a living space was highly unusual.

Then he said something that made my blood run cold.

The movement I had noticed meant the process was already underway. Development had begun. Whatever was inside those spheres wasn’t dormant anymore.

If I had ignored them — if I had simply gone away for a couple of days — the situation could have escalated dramatically.

I sat there in silence, staring at the wall, trying to understand how my home had turned into this. The place where I slept, where I felt safe, had quietly been invaded. The worst part wasn’t disgust or fear — it was the realization that this had been happening right beside me. Possibly for days.

The next morning, I called professionals.

They arrived wearing protective suits and worked methodically, without small talk. They treated the wall, the floor, the doorframe, every nearby surface. When one of them noticed how closely I was watching, he said something I will never forget:

“You were lucky to notice it early. Most people don’t.”

After they left, the apartment looked spotless. Sterile. Normal.
But the feeling never fully went away.

That night, I checked every corner before sleeping. Every wall. Every shadow. Even now, whenever I notice something unusual — a strange reflection, a tiny bump on the wall, an unfamiliar texture — my stomach tightens.

Because I learned something terrifying.

The most dangerous things don’t always appear suddenly.
Sometimes, they form quietly.
Right next to your door.