They tell that you’re crazy. That there’s no such thing. That you’ve been watching too many scifi horror movies. You couldn’t have seen such a creature skittering across the floor. They don’t exist. You couldn’t have seen such a thing eviscerate that man. Impossible.
They assign an investigator to the case just the same. (After all, a man is dead.) He works with you, but it’s like he’s humoring you. Equal parts detective and therapist. He brought you in for questioning. You expected good cop/bad cop; instead you got good cop/mocking cop. No one took you seriously.
Back home you hole up in your room. You watch the street through your bedroom window, like Jimmy Steward in Read Window. You know that it’s coming. It. What other name can you give that thing? You gird yourself for it.
When it happens, you almost miss it. A man on the street — his chest explodes with blood and tissue. One of it emerges and scurries across the pavement. It darts into the woods. People scream. Tires squeal. Cars abruptly halt cock-eyed in the street. You try to call the inspector but you cannot remember the number. You listen to his voicemail over and over but your panicked brain cannot hold more than three or four of the digits at a time. Finally the calls goes through. He has already heard. He is already reading himself and a team.
They believe you. Barricade your doors, he says.