I can hear voices upstairs. That isn’t unusual, but I never seem to be able to understand them. I’m not sure if it’s because the sound is too muddled by the time it reaches me or if they’re speaking a language I don’t understand. They never speak when they’re down here with me.

From what I can tell it’s a nice family that lives upstairs. Both parents work, I think, but their kids are all old enough that they don’t have a sitter or anything. There’re three kids, all teenagers. Two girls and a boy. They never yell or fight like some families I’ve known, and laughter is quite common.

The parents come down here the least often. Of the three kids it’s usually the son, the youngest I believe, who comes down here. They store a few things on some of the shelves. Stuff like their camping gear that they use once or twice a year, as well as some bulk food in large barrels. The laundry is also down here and the kids take it in turns each week to come down and do the washing, drying, and folding for the family.

I try not to get in their way. They know I’m here, of course, though they never seem to give me much acknowledgement when they’re down here. Body language is plenty obvious to show that they know I’m here. I wish they weren’t so stiff and uncomfortable, though. After all, they’re guests in my house, not the other way around.

That was a hard-won victory, establishing my claim on the house, let me tell you. It’s not enough anymore to be born and raised in a place. These days they require documentation, proof, titles and deeds and whatnot. No one told me any of that for years and I wasted so much energy trying to combat what I thought were trespassers. Turns out they were all just as innocent and ignorant as I was.

It wasn’t until about fifteen years ago a middle-aged couple, the Warrens, moved in. They didn’t bring in furniture or boxes when they first showed up, though. Instead, they walked through the house until they found me down here.

“Is this your house?” they asked me.

No one had ever spoken to me so directly before, let alone with such calm and polite tones. I hardly knew what to do. Well, as you might imagine it took some time for us to really be able to communicate. Human language is not my natural form of communication but most people have similar difficulties with the chitinous reverberations of my kind. The Warrens were prepared, however. They had built the oversized typewriter that I still use to communicate with. Learning letters, spelling, and grammar were all much more reasonable tasks than forming such squishy tones humans use.

After some time, once they felt my communication skills were up to the task, they began helping me go through the process of proving my ownership for the property. I didn’t care much for the acreage beyond the home’s walls, but I understood it was considered to be part of the home nonetheless in the legal perspective.

At first the Warren’s had to combat certain legal push-back against my ownership. For one thing, the government entities involved didn’t believe I existed. Well, one simple visit from them proved who was right. It was a pity about the older man whose weak heart wasn’t prepared for the stress induced when he saw me. The Warrens assured me that the man had lived a full, long life, and that the city government had improved significantly when his successor was elected. Something to do with people voting in the same people over and over again regardless of their competence.

Regardless, after I’d proven my existence it was a simple matter of the Warrens having the property signed over to me. Along with the title of ownership has, of course, come the usual aspects of property taxes, home repairs, and so forth. Hence the need to rent out the home. Contrary to what many had previously supposed, my issue with people in the house was not one of animosity against humans in general. On the contrary, I find them to be quite fascinating. However, this is my home. I was born in it, I was the first living inhabitant in it, and the structure itself was fashioned by those who summoned me into this plane of existence.

I don’t usually say much about those early days, but suffice to say they were seeking to bring about a variety of disasters that I simply had no interest in pursuing. I could tell they wouldn’t give up and, not wanting such reckless destruction to happen, I consumed them. Thus, the house stood empty for some time and I was quite content with things as they were. Eventually people began showing back up. I chased the first few away thinking they were more of the same group of people as before. Soon I learned they were of a different sort, just looking to live in my home but always shocked and terrified to find me living there. All sorts of means were used to try and remove me from the home. I’m sad to say that I did lose my temper a few times and consumed more than a few people.

All I can really say is that mistakes and unfair judgments were made on both sides and I’m just glad that the Warrens showed up when they did to smooth the whole thing over. Nowadays I nestle down in the basement and keep mostly to myself. The Warrens still help me manage the accounts and such. Turns out there’s a fair number of humans who have tried summoning my kind for some destructive purpose or other that we simply have no interest in. The Warrens have made it their business to help us gain legal recognition in the different places we’ve been summoned. The official term for us now is Eldritch Spawn, though the Warrens have never liked that term. It doesn’t bother me one way or the other. It’s just a name they can pronounce. Good as any other, I suppose, and from what I’ve learned of their mythologies, they aren’t too far off. I guess it’s a good thing humans can’t say our names properly or else they may have been able to summon some truly destructive Eldritch Spawn.

Anyway, I’m rambling. I like having people living here now. Listening to them living their lives, feeling their emotions, thrills me. I’m even considering a short trip upstairs once in a while. Announced, of course. I wouldn’t want to just barge in on the family. But a nice little visit, perhaps, would be nice. I could bring my typewriter to communicate with them if they can read this language. Maybe I could even go outside eventually, though I’m not so certain of that. Still, the basement is nice but the more I listen to the people, the more of their feelings I take in, the smaller this basement seems. I sometimes wonder if I’m growing bigger but its hard to tell. My kind don’t grow in the same manner as the creatures native to this plane of existence.

Perhaps I’ll write a letter of introduction, including my interest in getting to know the family better, and give it to the next person to come down here. That would be a nice way to ease into the subject. In fact, I think I hear one coming now. I think I’ll begin writing so that they hear me working on it. I don’t have to imagine what they might do if I just suddenly began moving behind them once they were down here. I’ve done that plenty of times to those I thought were trespassers and seen their reactions. No, I’ll begin typing now to ease them along so that when I do approach, they won’t be too surprised.