It started just before sunrise. A couple in their seventies called police in a panic, reporting strange noises coming from their living room sofa. “It’s scratching… moving… something is alive in there,” the woman stammered. The dispatcher hesitated, suspecting nerves—but the fear in her voice was real.
Within thirty minutes, two officers arrived, one accompanied by a K9 handler and his German shepherd, Rex. Inside, the couple waited nervously. Their living room looked normal: floral curtains, a small TV, and a large beige sofa. But from deep within the cushions came faint, unmistakable scratching.
Rex’s ears perked up, his growl low and warning. The officers exchanged glances. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” one muttered. The dog circled, barking and lunging at the fabric. Then the officer carefully sliced open a seam—only for a squeak to echo out.
Suddenly, dozens of gray shapes shot from the couch—rats, small and fast, scattering across the floor. But that was just the beginning. Peeling back more fabric revealed a horrifying nest: adults, juveniles, and newborns tangled in shredded foam, insulation, and old food wrappers. The smell was musky, damp, and overwhelming.
“Oh my God… we’ve been sitting on that?” the woman gasped.
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