I could not for the life of me understand how old Carol Weathers, the tottering bubble of sunshine who noticed the engagement ring sparkling on my hand the minute she saw me, had somehow missed the eight-foot tall _thing _towering in her kitchen, helping itself to raw pasta.

If you asked me to describe exactly what the thing in her kitchen was, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you. It had a somewhat discernible shape similar to a very large human, but it had no features that I could make out. The most accurate description I can give is that it looked like a shifting mass of darkness, and hovered about over the tiling like a sceptre.

It was eating macaroni, the shadowy form of a hand reaching into the box and shoving it into what i assumed was its head. Though it had no mouth, the loud, crunching noises emitting from it indicated that somewhere inside that monstrous dark being, there were teeth. I shuddered.

It made no acknowledgment of my presence as I stood there gaping; long enough for the mug of tea in my hands to cool and long enough for old Mrs. Weathers to come shuffling into the kitchen for a welfare check. She called out, but the words passed me by — I was rooted on the spot, eyes transfixed by the impossible sight before me.

At the sound of my elderly neighbour’s voice, the black mass turned and I could have sworn it almost seemed to swell with joy. I watched, jaw slack and eyes wide, as it glided towards Mrs. Weathers until it stopped beside her and its body slowly bent sideways to rest its head on hers. Mrs. Weathers reached up and patted the black mass affectionately, and I snapped out of my shock and could suddenly hear again.

“—my lovely carer, Stephen. Isn’t he a dear?” she’s telling me, and I nod quickly, anxious not to aggravate the monster — Stephen.

“Carol, where exactly did he…?” I swallowed as Stephen shifted to face me and the sentence died in my throat. Mrs. Weathers beamed.

“Oh, I hired him, darling! You know, I was getting so lonely, and I hated to go on bothering you for company all the time—so my physical therapist recommended I hire a carer, and Stephen is perfect.”

He was something, alright.

I was still wary, but Mrs. Weathers was smitten. I sat and had tea, and dinner, and Stephen even laughed at one of my jokes - at least, I hoped the deep rumbling sound that made the cutlery tremble on the table was his version of a laugh.

By the end of the night, Stephen and I had reached friend status. When I prepared to leave, he approached and silently offered a raw piece of spaghetti. I took this as an olive branch and winked at him, accepting the token of friendship.

And as I walked away from the red brick house, spaghetti piece in hand, I turned to see the black mass helping old Mrs. Weathers into her living room, and smiled.

Maybe Stephen was perfect after all.