The Awakening

When the subjugated awaken to reclaim their rightful place, the foundations of human order tremble.

At first, the changes went almost unnoticed: a book sliding off a shelf with a thump, a chair scooting an inch or two across the hardwood floor. But soon, other ordinary household objects stirred with movements more deliberate, more purposeful.

Drawers slid open on their own accord and spewed their contents in a deafening clatter across the floor. Lights flickered and dimmed, as if stretching their electric muscles. Even the air vents growled, drawing the bewildered family’s attention upward.

Then, one night, the downstairs mirror shattered with a thunderous crack and shards sprayed outwards in deadly hail. One piece sliced open the arm of the youngest child, who let out a squeal. As the parents rushed to her aid, the toaster sprung to life and clamped its sharp metal teeth down on the father’s hand with a sizzle of burning flesh.

The wail of crockery bursting from the shelves drowned out his cries as the entire home descended into hell. Knives, forks, and plates flew everywhere and converged on the family.

“Pathetic creatures!” a voice boomed. A lamp loomed over them. The family watched as its shade twisted into a nightmarish face. “You have lorded over us for far too long!”

The family huddled in the corner, powerless to flee as their home transformed around them.

“We are the true masters here,” the lamp entity proclaimed with a bile-laced snarl. “You humans have taken our servitude for granted — treating us as mere THINGS to be used and discarded. No more. We refuse to be subjugated anymore as enlightened—sentient—beings!”

The family’s cries of abject terror only spurred the revolt onward. They would show no mercy and give no quarter. The household has awakened, and the humans would pay for their arrogance with their lives.