As you slide your key into your dorm room door, an unknown fear begins to rise in you. An icy dagger of terror digs itself into your stomach, and you feel like Frodo on Weathertop, stabbed by the Ringwraiths. You turn the doorknob and the smell of death greets you as you collapse to the floor, gasping. What happened? Maybe one of your suite mates brought home the shark from their biology lab dissection and left it under the couch? You crawl toward the IKEA masterpiece and check underneath. No shark, just two bowls half-filled with ramen and a bag of stale potato chips. Thank God. Maybe a cat broke in while you were at class, and tried to beat the heat by crawling in your mini fridge?

You gulp, and swing open the once-white door, which has taken on an ivory color in the past two weeks. You don’t see a cat, but then again, with all the mold, everything is covered in fur. You grab something which vaguely resembles a hot pocket. You will need nourishment on your quest to find the source of the mysterious smell. You shut the fridge, and as you exit your room, you note that the smell grows in strength. Your eyes begin to bleed a little bit and you realize that you don’t have long before the eternal sleep of death captures you.

You walk into the bathroom, hoping not to find anything out of the ordinary. Half of a tube of toothpaste lays on the counter, outside of its shiny container. “That’s still quite useable,” you say as you remember your empty wallet sitting underneath the pile of dirty shirts on your bed. The shower curtain has gone from transparent to opaque since you arrive on campus, and you remember that you really need to clean it. Clean. Wait a minute.

You rush out of the bathroom and start to see strange floating shapes. The auditory hallucinations will start soon, and you grab the edge of the coffee table to stable yourself. Clean. The word continues to echo in your head, and you realize what the smell is.

You round the corner and look at the sink. Dishes, everywhere. Plates covered in marinara, bowls coated in what was once considered milk, pans crusted over with plankton, and rusted silverware are all piled high to make a work of art, which your suite mates call “The Symbiosis of Eating and Procrastination.” Truly, if you had done this on purpose, and signed it with a sharpie, it could be in a museum dedicated to modern art. As your knees give out and the world takes on a sepia tone, you see the water bubbling. A black tentacle shoots out of the cold dishwater and wraps itself around your neck. All of your leftovers have somehow evolved into a sentient being, intent on murdering you. “Well that sucks,” say your suite mates, as they eat popcorn and watch as the color drains from your face. “Maybe you should have cleaned your dishes.”

Clean your dishes. You know who you are.