a nearly satisfactory hypermegaultraquantumcompumultiversalnet creation

Death by Toilet Paper

He'd been sleeping hard lately, lots of doubles at the paper mill pumping out the extra toilet paper folks were clamoring for during Coronavirus (or Commodavirus, as his coworkers gleefully called it), so when his wife started pounding on the front door and screaming his name at three in the morning he registered it only in his dream - a quiet morning fishing on a calm lake morphing quickly into a Walmart-wide TP fracas. He snorted, woke himself up briefly, then fell right back asleep as the thing that had replaced his wife in bed with him gently stroked his hair, telling him, in his wife's voice, that it was all just a bad dream and everything was going to be alright, as its teeth lengthened, sharpening to points, and its hands became talons.