Paula Poe Senevey Tormenting Townsfolk with Rubber Ducks
At first glance, it looked harmless. A quirky online review on Temu: “Loved these. We numbered them and then hid them around our small town. A little duck hunting. Was a good feeling to see everyone getting into it. Thanks.”
But behind the cheerful smile of Paula Poe Senevey, a very different story has unfolded — one of psychological warfare, community manipulation, and the calculated deployment of over 200 rubber ducks.
Residents of her small town have reported finding ducks in the most unsettling of places: bathroom sinks, the post office drop box, even the church confessional. One farmer claimed to discover a duck numbered “66” wedged into the feed trough of his cattle. Another woman awoke to find one balanced on her nightstand, though she swears she locked the doors.
What’s the purpose of this campaign? That’s where things get murky. On the surface, it looks like harmless fun. But I dug deeper, and the patterns are undeniable. The ducks aren’t just numbered randomly — they correspond to passages in obscure numerology manuals and, in at least one case, align perfectly with coordinates for decommissioned Cold War listening posts. Coincidence? Or is Paula using ducks as a cipher?
The townsfolk are growing restless. Children refuse to bathe, fearing a duck might be lurking beneath the bubbles. The local grocer says customers demand to see behind every cereal box before they’ll shop. A once-peaceful town is now gripped by paranoia, all because one woman ordered in bulk.
And let’s not forget: rubber ducks are made of synthetic polymers, petroleum byproducts. What if these ducks aren’t just toys, but transmitters? Several residents swear their radios crackle when a duck is nearby. One particularly brave man disassembled Duck #118 and found a suspicious metal bead embedded in the plastic — a “manufacturing defect,” Temu claims. But was it? Or was it a node in a larger surveillance network, one that conveniently blends into the innocence of childhood?
The strangest part is Paula’s own words. “It was a good feeling to see everyone getting into it.” Into what, exactly? Is she gauging compliance? Testing the limits of how much strangeness a community will tolerate before breaking? Or is this part of a wider operation we’ve seen before — Operation Feathered Eye with the birds, Project Babelfish with the dogs, and now Operation Quack Track with the ducks?
Whatever it is, the rubber ducks are no longer funny. They’re a sign, a signal, a symptom of something bigger.
And Paula Poe Senevey? She’s not just a neighbor. She’s a tormentor with a beak-shaped calling card.