The living room was painfully still. The dog halted by the sofa, fur bristling on its back, and suddenly let out a low growl. An instant later, barking wildly, it lunged onto the cushions, burying its snout in the cloth.
The owners gasped, and the policeman muttered grimly:
— “There’s something inside. And it’s definitely not small.”
The dog clawed frantically at the fabric, whining in frenzy, as though desperate to reach whatever hid within. The officer drew his knife and carefully slit open the sofa’s side.
Dust and stuffing spilled out first, and then came a sharp, piercing squeal. “Oh Lord!” the woman cried, pressing her hand against her mouth. From inside, grey shapes tumbled through the opening.
They were rats — massive, glaring-eyed creatures. They darted across the floor, the dog snapping furiously after them. Yet the worst sight lay deeper.
When the officer ripped the material wider, a horrifying nest appeared. 
A colony teemed inside — dozens of rats, with squirming newborns, tiny writhing grey knots squeaking miserably.
“How did they even get in?” the wheelchair-bound man whispered, his face drained of color. The dog barked wildly, lunging again, but the policeman restrained him.
Even he, though hardened by duty, was stunned at the infestation. The very sofa where the family had sat for years, watched shows, greeted visitors, had been transformed into a breeding den for vermin. The wife broke down at last, trembling violently, almost screaming:
— “We’ve been sitting on THAT?!”
The officer answered solemnly:
— “Yes.
But we’ll deal with it now. Your house won’t be theirs anymore.”
Only then did the couple truly grasp that the noises haunting them for weeks had never been imagined.
