I’m sprawled out on the couch, minding my own business, when I hear it.
A light scratching sound. Coming from somewhere deep within the walls. I freeze in place as the suspicious noise pricks my ears.
Scrrrrratch-scratch-scratch… Scritch-scratch…
Others might mistakenly assume the house’s structural faults, or blame the plumbing. But this is a false lead. I am convinced that these noises are the stirrings of a more malicious presence. Intrigued and wishing to investigate further, I leave the comfort of the couch cushion and approach the air intake vent. I drop low to the ground, so I can hear better. Soon enough my patience is rewarded: a tiny whisper emanates from a far-off hidden place, uttered by a being with a lung capacity much smaller than my own.
It’s confirmed, then. I know what I’m dealing with now. The things inside the walls — I have seen their kind before. My housemates remain clueless, their senses dulled with their screens and the substances they consume. But I can hear the creatures, and one truth is becoming clearer than glass.
They do not deserve to exist.
This is not information I can share with my roommates, even if I could find a way I wouldn’t do it. Because this feels personal. Primal. Something deep unlocks within me, as I realize the inhabitants of these walls are my mortal enemies. While they’ve been careful to leave behind few outward clues of their parasitic lives, I can’t be the only one who has sensed them. Crafty and clever, they travel under the cover of night, when darkness falls over the house and most of us are dead asleep.
Most, but not all. I creep across the carpeted floor, treading as lightly as I can. Tactical, delicate steps that wouldn’t spook a moth, let alone one of those abhorrent invaders in my walls. Something internal compels me to pursue them. My mouth salivates at the mental image of them in my grasp. They’re so close I can smell them. Hear their tiny heartbeats as they speed up ever faster… until the moment I stop them forever.
First, I make sure everyone else is asleep. They do not need to bear witness to what’s about to happen. This is between me and the creatures in the walls. They mock me with their infinitesimal voices, a hellish chorus invisible to most, but not to me. Never me.
A soft peep sounds from the kitchen. I pause, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness quicker. Then I see it.
The creature is alone, and it’s crouched over something even tinier than it. Feasting. The enemy is smaller than I expected, but it truly doesn’t matter. As soon as I home in on it, I feel galvanized with purpose. Its very presence offends me, nearly sending my dinner back up my esophagus. I manage to soldier on despite the close call.
I sprint across the floor, giving chase to the intruder. As if supernaturally endowed with extra sentience, it somehow knows I’m closing in, drops its payload and darts away. My legs move ever swifter as I follow the bastard down the basement steps.
The dampness slices at my nostrils, making me flinch. I hate this place, everything about it disgusts me. The mold blossoming in the southwest corner, the wet ring pooling around the sump pump every time it rains outside… But now I am forced to prioritize. I must either choose comfort and dryness (thus retreating with my tail between my legs), or risk the momentary distress that nets me a sweet reward.
I go for the suffering that gets results. Leaping over the sump pump puddle, I reach my enemy in three quick bounds. Yes! It’s in my grip! Struggling while its hateful maw yelps those trademark high-pitched pinpricks. Even as it begs for its life, I despise it. It’s the thing that shouldn’t exist. Especially where I am. The two of us are mutually exclusive.
In a flash-quick motion, my jaws part and I bite off its head at the neck. It’s a clean cut, and I’m pleased. The blood filling my mouth is warm and brings its own reward. There’s one kind of dampness I don’t mind. No, I don’t mind it at all.
I make quick work of the body, chewing up the bones and lightly choking on the fur-covered flesh. But I get it all down, huffing it greedily, as if I hadn’t eaten dinner a mere hour ago. But no processed food could ever live up to a live meal begging for mercy. I leave some soggy remains to be discovered later; of course my roommates will know who did it, but at that point the deed will be done. I will have lived out my purpose, and they can only offer me gratitude for the service I selflessly provided.
But the hunt is far from over. I hear a new scratching, this one coming from a crack inside the foundation. Blood-drunk but curious, I tiptoe over and listen. The creatures must sense me looming outside their hidey-hole, because they quiet down. My face is resolute as I lick the blood off my cheek. They can mourn their fallen comrade all they want, but the same fate will befall them all.
I will track down and eat them. One by one I will drag them from their holes — with my teeth if I have to — and crush their sumptuous little bones. Then I will drink their lifeblood. Lick it off the floor if there’s any left. And afterwards, I will curl up in my spot on the window sill for a well-earned nap.
Mike Rusetsky is a Ukrainian-American author of dark and speculative fiction with a satirical bite. His work has appeared in The Brussels Review, Across the Margin, Carnage House, Tales from the Crosstimbers, Sometimes Hilarious Horror, Trollbreath Magazine, and numerous themed anthologies of horror, sci-fi, fantasy, and crime fiction. Mike is an active member of the Horror Writers Association and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. He lives in Columbus, Ohio with his beautiful wife and their spoiled Alaskan Malamute dog.
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