They Mostly Come At Night, Mostly

© 1999 Andrew S. Fuller
All rights reserved.

"Ever seen this collection?" Cautiously hopeful, Angus held the hardcover volume out to his friend.

"Huhm? Uh—no. No..." Dory set the book in his lap. "Who's in it?" Even before he started to turn the pages, the tone of those few words betrayed Dory's true feelings on the matter: he wasn't interested. At least, not interested to the degree that Angus considered acceptable. So Angus did not answer, letting Dory find the table of contents.

Angus just stared at his bookshelf and waited, pretending to look for any further books that could (only hope to) interest his friend. Behind him, Dory was sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, as he slid his finger down the list of names and stories. "I don't read much," Dory was saying, "Not as much as you do, anyways. I read for classes, though. You know. But... here. Here, I've heard of a few of these. Poe, of course. And Lovecraft I tried once—when you told me to read him?—but I just couldn't get into it, you know? He's so wordy."

At the mention of the two names, nearly half of a smile cut Angus' mouth. He waited for more names from his friend. None came. "Only those two?" He lowered his hand from the book shelf. Closing his eyes, he added to the list his friend had begun. "Bierce. Blackwood. Bloch. Campbell. Dahl..." And trailed off in hopelessness. And whispered audibly again when yearning overtook his disappointment. "Saki. Smith. Stoker..."

"Nope, I guess I just don't read much of this stuff."

Angus sighed. His hope was gone. Dory hadn't changed. College hadn't changed him. Not yet. Probably not ever. No big deal, Angus thought; he wasn't on a quest to convert his friends into frothing, debased horror fiction-reading ghouls. Though ... Dory would certainly make a juicy prize (for my dark masters, Angus said to himself), and he nearly, truly, almost giggled aloud. Now where did that come from? Alas, he knew the humor would be lost in this company. No matter. Next year he would go to college himself. He always had been different from dear Dory: for he actually read the stories. On occasion, Dory had listened to Angus' summaries and promised to read the tales himself. But only promised. And between every disappointment, Angus would forget that his friend hadn't the passion or the will to be interested. He remembered the pattern now, well into their ritual interaction—and far too late—as he pulled the old sewing chair back from his desk. Pivoting the seat around, the swivel gave a harsh shriek.

Dory somehow cringed and jumped at once.

"Geez," he exclaimed, "That scared me."

It's just a chair, Angus said to himself, in the most linear thought he'd had since his friend's arrival. And, as if in competition, his mind skewed away. It rolled its film, spun its tale. It held for him a private screening, one of the stories he made without trying, narrative and vision at once, wherein, this time ... the awful (though nostalgic and lovable, he thought) shapes of giant insectile mollusk simian (but altogether indescribable, he added) creatures rolled and lopped up a hill, where their silhouettes slid before an (almost cheesy) sickened yellow moon. He listened to the loathsome beasts (from far beyond our finite space or comprehension, he interjected) make their fiendish cacophony of (what could only begin to be described as) howlings, buzzings and pipings (the likes of which would surely reduce any sane man to terrifying paralysis as he sank into a dark corner muttering gibberish, never to speak again for the remainder of his days!).

Angus awoke from his sentimental stupor. He remembered when these stories had actually scared him. In junior high. Not many years ago now. Scared him then because he could perfectly visualize the horrific images in his head. Scared him then because he almost believed such unthinkable things could be real. Almost. He had never exactly believed that monstrous creatures from some outer darkness lurked in ancient undersea cities, haunting cavernous vistas, and just beyond the delicate membrane of our lesser dimension and understanding—all of them waiting, and all soon to wake and (re)claim the little Earth from the puny mammals whose race's life was naught in the vastness of the cosmos (though why, with their powers and capability, they would actually want Earth, Angus was beyond bothering to ask). And he was fully aware that his rejection now of such ideas was nothing like the point he made to disbelieve anything his parents' church proffered to him "while he still lived under their roof." He had never reached any true faith in the "Elder Gods" or any horror fiction monsters. By the time he finally found someone else who had read Lovecraft—the used bookstore owner had remarked that Lovecraft was a "phase" most bookish young adult males went through—Angus had already begun to laugh out loud at any new supernatural literature he read. And the movies weren't even worth commenting on. At eighteen, Angus could honestly snicker at any unspeakable behemoth or formless spawn his mind conjured up—fiction-inspired or of his own design. And now his mind revised its current tenebrous vision, transforming the accursed (but somehow lovable) abominations atop the haunting hill into a herd of calm and harmless sewing chairs, which looked plainly ridiculous reflecting the altogether dull and ordinary moonlight. He kept the erupting laugh suppressed. It wasn't too difficult, he simply sighed.

"Just you wait. They give you tons of reading in college," Dory excused himself as he let the pages flit past his finger, stories rolling away before him. "By the time I get done with assignments—if I do, ya know?—I just have to play some pool in the lounge. And, there're parties on the weekends, man. I mean... I'm talking, like ... well, I've only been to a few but—I'm talking party like you've never seen. I mean, it's like—it's like...." Dory couldn't find the words to finish. As usual.

Another sigh escaped Angus. Dory reacted this time—barely. He glanced to his friend with a puzzled look that he simply let dissolve from his face.

But Angus played his part of their ritual too. Ah, my friend, how sad that you will never see the haunting vistas, the cyclopean masonry, the hideous and unbelievable acropolis that lies sunken and forgotten (except in glorious nightmares!) where it waits to rise and give its denizens rule again over the Earth, and..., Angus was having big fun in his little head. Maybe—Maybe this time his friend would listen (this time?!) if he just summarized a few of the stories. He dismissed his own suggestion. No, you had to read horror stories alone and in the dark. To believe. (Believe... ha! He was one to preach so.) Believe, even for the duration of the story, if no longer.

"You're missing it," was all he could say.

Dory flipped through the pages—slower now, like he might actually stop somewhere and read some of the words. He stopped scanning at the bookmarked page and removed the index card. After a moment, a look of disgust contorted his face. "Ee-yuh," he exclaimed. Holding the card out for Angus to see, he looked away, shuddering. "What is this?"

I begin to fear for this poor mortal's ability to evaluate even the simplest of realities. Managing to hold in another sigh, Angus obliged to look at what was obviously a bookmark. He actually put some thought behind his observations, staring at the plain white card, then his friend, trying to decipher the cause of his effect. He saw a bookmark, nothing more.

Then, with closer scrutiny, Angus saw the small dark smear on the face of the index card, and his memory suddenly lurched.

But not all the way to the surface. The memory rolled in the dark of him, and he did not recall the scene immediately, and it felt not unlike his willpower trying to control the involuntary action of regurgitation. Indeed, he felt an intense rush of nausea. Had he not been sitting down....

"Ah!" He snapped his fingers before he knew he did so. He reached and quickly took the bookmark from Dory. Then he lost the memory again. Seeing the size of the smear and thinking of the size of most monsters he knew, and believing what he believed about where reality ended, he was not prepared to accept that any thought could frighten him enough to require the deep, deep burial of denial.

And so he dug further inside.

Angus examined the mysterious discoloration, the dried smear of purple, brown and orange.

"Silverfish," he whispered. At the word, Angus felt a hint of fear. He could hardly recognize the feeling for what it was, for he couldn't remember what it was like to be afraid. He had never been satisfied with narrative descriptions of fear in the stories—they had always seemed like gimmicks. What he felt was not a chill, a tingle, a wave, or a flash. It was no physical sensation; more, it was an aching weight on his mind, his morale, his will to exist. The feeling was internal, but without location—everywhere!—so he could not be sure if he felt or imagined it. It smothered and chewed his being. Suddenly, he knew what it meant to want to "crawl away into a hole somewhere," and he was managing to do so quite effectively as retracted farther within himself. He heard Dory asking him "what? what?!" somewhere in the distance. Angus curled up in the odd, unknown sensation that was somehow older than he could remember, surely older than him. At some point, the dread subsided just enough for him to speak.

"Silverfish."

Still, he could not move. Not even his eyes.

"What? What are you saying?" Dory was very close. He had stood, and was leaning his face near. "What do you mean?" Angus felt the breath on his face. He wondered how long the feeling had held him. "What is it?"

"An insect." Angus stood up quickly. He struggled with the discomforting nervousness. He wasn't fascinated by the sensation any longer, and he wasn't having any fun. The experience was nothing like the stories he liked to read. Surely it was simple apprehension from his failure to recollect the whole memory. The memory of the small, dry stain. The memory that was slowly rising back to him. But it warned that his demand to know everything was going to be much worse than not knowing at all.

And then it all happened like a story: the characters unable to think outside their realm as the language rolled the events forward to one imminent ending, and Angus tumbled helplessly into its gullet. Its carapace. Its pincers. Pincers?

When Angus stood so quickly, Dory stepped back and nearly fell on the bed. He stumbled and gained his footing.

"A bug?" Dory said with disbelief.

All at once: Angus spinning, leaping over his chair, running down the hallway.

"Angus! A bug?!"

"Running—across the wall ... it was—running—" Angus faded into the darkness. His footfalls diminished. Then his voice echoed from downstairs. "I was reading—it was—running—toward me... I smashed it—with the bookmark... must show you—"

Angus was reading from the heavy book even before he came into the room.

Dory was sitting on the bed, tapping the bookmark against his leg, saying, "Hey, let's rent a vid-"

But Angus was louder.

" 'Silverfish: A small, silver-colored insect. A house pest, it is one of the most primitive of insects. It has no wings, two long feelers, and three tail appendages. The silver fish eats anything with starch, paste, or glue on it. Lepisma saccarina.'" Angus continued to stare at the encyclopedia. "No picture," he sighed—in relief—and set down the book. "You've never seen a silverfish?"

"Never," Dory said, with an overtly slow and haunted gravity in his voice. Angus might have been impressed with the performance, but he wasn't paying full heed to these details now.

He's never seen them, because they don't like him. Angus was talking to himself inside. Again. But he was ignoring it. Or maybe they do like him. It's me they dislike. Angus just talked aloud over it.

"Yes. Well, you probably won't see any at college. Colorado's too dry." From where he stood, Angus was looking about the room, scanning the floor and the walls. The encyclopedia under his arm, he was actually biting his fingernails.

"It's just a bug." Dory began to rise. "I mean—"

Angus turned abruptly. His face was pale. The wide whiteness of his eyes would have melted into his pallid skin, if not for the dark rings surrounding them. Fright on his face, Dory dropped back to his seat on the bed. Fighting the impulse to grab his friend by the shoulders and shake him vigorously, Angus sat in his chair. He had a little sanity left, but the hysteria rung in his head. You don't understand! It's not just a bug. Not at all! Not a bug!! Not!!!

Then Angus drew himself up straight. He swallowed and took a deep breath. He set the encyclopedia volume on his desk and (silently) swiveled back around to his friend.

"The way it moves..." he began, his hands rising before him with these words. The gesturing visibly involved and impressed his friend, and at any other time, on any other subject, Angus might have been embarrassed at the clichéd scholar-gone-insane expression he was making. But in his mind, Angus was simply concentrating on control, on making a great effort towards explanation, theorizing that—hoping that—talking rationally would make him feel calm and rational.

"The way it moves. Is. So smooth ... like it wasn't meant for this world. And when it stops ... as though its dead, or a stone. And their bodies ... so alien. Like fossils; trilobites, maybe. Insectile, flat. Gray, like depression." Drawing his long legs up from the floor, he hugged them close to his chest. "When I tried to crush it ... it ... it moved. I used the bookmark—couldn't touch it—slapped it against the wall. So many times. Each time, so sure I had gotten it—crushed the vile thing. Somehow, each time, like it anticipated me—could feel me, and had some hate for me—it slipped away, along the wall. So smooth."

"But you got it."

Suddenly aware of Dory in the room, Angus lifted his eyes.

"What?"

"You got it. You killed the bug?"

Ashamed, trying to be discreet, Angus replaced his feet on the floor.

"Yes," he said. A bug, Angus. Listen to your friend. It was a bug. You squashed the insignificant thing. "Yes. The bug is dead." He accented the word desperately.

"Sounds like—from the body shape, at least—an earwig." Dory nodded his head. "You could—"

"An earwig." Angus stood. "Of course!" He was over his chair, down the hall.

Angus was back in seconds with another encyclopedia volume. Near the doorway, he found the page and read in a low, absent whisper.

" '...pincers at rear of its body ... hard, shiny outer case ... long, delicate feelers, antennae ... under stones, in decayed bark of trees, in moist places ... most active at night ... may destroy fruit and flowers ... eats crops, snails, caterpillars....'" He paused a moment, then read on with a slur and tempo of dread. "'Named for the mistaken belief that they enter a sleeping person's ear.'" Angus closed the book, and looked intently at its cover for a long, long, long time, timeless for him.

"Mistaken belief?"

Angus did not look up.

"A mistaken belief, right? They don't really do that?"

Dory was talking. Somewhere far away.

Angus was talking to himself. Inside.

Enter through the ear. Oh please. How would I know? Before, before... How would I get it out? Angus looked down at the bookmark on his desk. He could not, at an inner time like this, remember a Robert Bloch story he had read two ... three years ago. The one with the punch line ending about the earwig being a female. He could not aim the facts of the encyclopedia against the piece of fiction. He could not wield his own cynicism of anything monstrous and fictional ever visiting his world or his life. He could not breath. He was staring, staring, staring at the dried stain. He was thinking things inside that weren't so much words, but might occasionally have slowed to become something like: So smooth, so quick. So hard to catch. How smart? How much—can they—remember? What about—revenge? What if they come—come for—come for me?! So smooth. So hard. Hard to catch.

Angus felt himself swaying. He could remember them now. Far back. Since he was young. Seeing them in the house. Every so often. Moving. In their way. From behind the toaster on the counter. Along the edge of an open box in the attic. Across the floor in the bathroom. Every few months. Every time he had forgotten. They had always been there. Angus was still swaying. He tried very hard to faint.

"...don't really, not in the ear?!" Dory's voice rose in pitch, from disbelief to plea. "Do they?"

The windshield wipers moved back and forth in their hypnotizing motion. The smell of rain lingered in their coats. Outside, the sewer drains were flooded and the sound that came from the tires was a tearing one.

"You can put that in the back seat," said Angus, looking at his friend for the first time in the past hour. "You don't have to hold it."

Dory patted the bag in his lap.

"Oh, no. It's all right. I can hold it 'til we get there."

Angus nodded. He slowed the car. They came to rest at a stoplight. Raindrops burst on the windshield, and the wiper blades cut them in arcs.

"So," Dory said above the rain's noise, "Whaddya think?"

Turning, Angus looked at his friend with slight contempt. What a question, he thought. Then he smiled and laughed large enough to surprise himself.

"You asked me that when you left for college."

"Did I?"

"The night before you left. I'm quite sure of it." Angus laughed again under his breath.

"Well then, what do you think?" Dory smiled, and joined in the laugh.

"Now, oh now, is the time—just before we part again—that we save our friendship again. We spill our grand philosophies." The stoplight turned green. Still laughing, Angus stepped on the gas pedal. The tires spun in the water, and then caught cement. "Drop our pearls of wisdom, as is said. We will speak of things we never speak of at other times. Voice, in our few last minutes together, our opinions of love, and dreams, and how we would solve the problems of the world, and the mysteries of the universe."

"That does seem to happen, doesn't it?" Dory said, his laughter quieting, "Just before I leave." He played with the clasp on his bag.

The car moved through the last intersection and onto the highway.

"Fear," Angus said.

"Now that's a cheery topic." Dory tried to laugh, but it came out short and idle. "But, yes, all right. Fear. Okay, well...." He pretended, as always, to think. "I always lock my doors at night."

"Until I was about twelve years old," Angus began, "I was frightened of monsters." He spoke it like the beginning of a story. And it was good for him that he had no intention of continuing, because his friend cut in immediately.

Dory shook his head.

"Monsters never scared me much. It was always the maniacs with knives, the burglars with guns ... stuff like that."

"Such fears, I agree, seem more realistic." Angus paused. "Though I never liked dwelling or even thinking about this narrow realm."

Dory paused, probably trying to decipher the word 'realm.'

"You spend too much time up there, Angus." Dory pointed a finger at his friend's head. "Those horror stories are gettin' to ya."

"Reality disappoints me on a regular basis."

"Maybe you're lucky. I mean, you don't have to worry about what could really happen."

"Perhaps..." Angus pondered, "I need one good disaster to jar me into reality. Perhaps ... a car wreck, or something of the sort." Turning the wheel slightly, he edged the car towards the shoulder, as he spread an over-acted grin of madness on his face and stared straight forward.

It took Dory a dangerous second.

"Hey!" He reached out and grabbed the steering wheel. "Careful!"

Angus dropped the grin and laughed as he moved them back into the lane.

Reconciled and smiling, neither of them said anything for the last mile. When they came to the airport exit, Dory spoke.

"What are you afraid of now?" he asked.

"Now?"

"You said you used to be scared of monsters."

Angus remembered the silver creature as it had moved over his wall. Reading, absorbed in his book, he had felt the thing coming. Felt it. Then it had stopped. And looked at him. Waiting for him to see it, looking at him. And he had known Fear then. Locked in the eyeless gaze of the strange insect, unable to get off his bed or even close his eyes.

"Searching through boxes in the attic, I used to find them." Angus' voice slipped into the dazed monotone again. "Occasionally I would find them in the bookshelves in the den."

"Find what?" Dory watched his driver intently.

"And for a few years, I hadn't seen one. Not until I was sure I wasn't afraid of monsters anymore."

As they pulled up to the unloading zone, Dory stared at his friend.

"Oh. Oh, geez. You're talking about those little bugs again, aren't you?"

Silverfish, Angus mouthed. He double-parked the car at gate. He is right. It's a bug, Angus. What can a bug do? It doesn't even eat other bugs. You're safe. He managed to settle his eyes on his friend.

"Well. Here you are."

Dory looked into the terminal.

"I think I'm even on time." He shook hands with his friend. "Thanks for the ride."

"No trouble. Good to see you again."

Dory opened the door and stepped out. Standing on the sidewalk and holding the door, the rain streaming down his forehead and cheeks blurred the concern only slightly. He managed to shake off that look before he spoke.

"If all you're afraid of is bugs, then I'd say you're in great shape."

Angus nodded cryptically.

"Thanks again."

"Call me when you get there. So I know you made it."

"Will do." Dory shut the door and hurried into the terminal.

Safe. No worry. Great shape. Just bugs.

"Hello?" The line crackled. It was still raining.

"Hi, Angus. I made it. Did I wake you?"

"No. I've been awake. Been doing some thinking."

"Wha'cha thinkin' about?"

Angus sat down in his chair.

"Many things." He fingered the fly swatter on his desk. "Thinking about new species. Have you ever read about mutations and new species, Dory?"

"No. Not very much."

"Extremely interesting. Frightening even. I remember reading about how there are many species of life that are not yet recorded." Angus' eyes darted, searching the walls. "There are fish deep under the sea, and insects deep in the jungle that no one has ever seen."

"Kinda makes you wonder about what happens when people aren't around." Dory was speaking slowly, Angus noticed. He's really struggling to relate. Like he doesn't know me. He thinks I'm going insane. That's pretty funny. "—nda makes you wonder what we haven't seen yet, ya kn—" But it's nothing. Just a bug problem.

"Precisely." Angus rolled his chair back and scanned the wood floor. He didn't even notice the lightning white out the room.

A second later the thunder rattled all the windows in the house. The phone line crackled like an angry fire and the voice on the other end was lost for a few words.

"...ngus," Dory said, "You all right?"

"Of course." Taking the fly swatter from the desk, Angus twirled it in his hand. "I am quite fine."

"Good," Dory said hesitantly, "Good." He paused a moment. "Listen. You should come out and visit. Maybe you'll want to come out here for college. Have you sent out applications yet?"

"Not yet."

"Well, you should come visit. I can show you around. But listen, there's a floor party. I gotta go."

"Gotta go," Angus said, too.

Dory made a real pause on the edge of concern.

"I'll call you later this week," Dory said. "All right?"

"You needn't," Angus defended himself.

"Just to see."

"Yes."

"Talk to you later."

Angus was still holding the phone long after Dory hung up.

Just a bug.

"Angus?"

"I'm here."

"How're ya doin'?"

"Not much sleep. Thinking. More thinking."

"Cheery thoughts, I hope?"

"It doesn't matter, I've decided. What I said. About new species" His voice echoed hollowly in the barren room, and Angus nestled himself tighter into the corner. All the furniture was in the hall now. The carpet too. Only the phone accompanied him in his vigil, the both of them squatting on the dusty floorboards.

"Glad to hear it, Angus." Dory sighed in audible relief.

"Mutations, unrecorded species—doesn't matter. Not in the least." Angus held the fly swatter close to his chest. Sweat had made his underwear damp. The sole garment clung to his aching hips—sole except for his shoes. "The encyclopedia doesn't even matter."

"How so?"

"Those books were old. And they could be wrong. Encyclopedias don't know everything."

"I guess not...."

"Say they don't, Dory."

"Of course they don't. They don't know."

"All that about what they eat—paste, glue, cardboard—it could be wrong. Very wrong. So wrong. They could eat anything, I'm sure. Eat anything."

"Angus?" There was fear and concern in Dory's voice.

"That last sentence. I've read it over and over. And over. Have it memorized. " '...named for the mistaken belief that they enter a sleeping person's ear.' "

"Angus. Listen to me—"

"Haven't slept. In days. Can't lay down."

"Listen to me, Angus! It's a mistaken belief. It's not true. It doesn't happen."

"Doesn't happen?" Angus echoed. He picked at the peeling heel of his hiking boot. Hiking boots: good for stomping, for smashing.

"No. It's not true. Do you hear me, Angus?"

"I hear." Angus licked the face of the fly swatter. Just bugs, echoed in his head, so loud it was distorted to a roar. There was a bitter taste on his tongue. "Books aren't sure, Dory, they don't know. Whereas I happen to know. They like dark places. Who knows what they do when they get inside."

"Angus, when do your parents get back?"

"Parents...? Parents. Next week."

The room turned white. But Angus didn't notice.

The phone line crackled.

Angus pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it with a furrowed brow. Then his eyes started to widen. They're in the phone! He dropped the receiver, shot himself back in the wheeled sewing chair, hit the wall—not caring. He stared at the phone, fly swatter ready.

Nothing came out of the phone.

Except faint shouting.

Angus approached the phone sideways, extending one arm slowly, other arm raised behind his head with the fly swatter ready.

"Angus!!" The phone shouted. "Angus! What happened?!" Dory's voice.

"Noises ... in the phone...." Angus stared.

"I heard lightning, Angus. The storm. It's just a connection thing."

"Maybe...." Angus held the phone in front of his face. So he could watch it. The little holes in it.

"Okay, Angus, all right. Listen to me. Just listen. You're convinced that earwigs crawl into people's ears, is that it?"

"They could do that."

"Then listen! Those are earwigs. Earwigs. Do you hear me? You don't have earwigs in your house, Angus. You have silverfish. You're afraid of silverfish, remember?"

"Silverfish?"

"The earwigs are here. They're with me. They're in Colorado."

"In Colorado," Angus whispered.

"Yes. A whole state away. You're safe."

"They can walk...."

"Angus!" Dory screamed. Angus looked at the phone. "Just sit still. I'm coming. I'll take the next plane. I'll get a cab to your house."

"No!" Angus stood up. The phone cord stretched, lifting the phone into the air. The bell rang dull in the black phone when it hit the floor. "Don't come! Don't! Don't bring them! You'll bring them from Colorado!" Out of his suitcase. All of them. Too many to swat. If they don't get me right away, they'll run under the walls. Then, at night, they'll come out, yes. When it's dark. I'll be sleeping, laying down. My ears—open. "NO!"

"Okay. Calm down. All right. I'm not going anywhere. Dory is staying in Colorado."

"Staying? Staying with the earwigs?"

"Yes."

Angus slid himself to a seat on the floor. "Thank you. So gracious. Thank you."

"Settle down. You're safe. Everything is all right."

"Dory?"

"Yes? I'm here."

"I should get off the phone."

"That's all right, Angus. I don't mind the long distance bill."

"Not that. I have to keep watch. I'm staying awake, you understand. And I can't watch as well when I talk."

Dory chuckled. "Like in that movie? 'They mostly come at night. Mostly.' "

"This," Angus was very stern, "Is not a movie, Dory."

"Okay, okay." Dory sighed this time. Then he spoke seriously too. "I'll hang up if you're going to be all right."

"Fine," Angus said quietly. "Safe."

"You sure? I'll call back tomorrow?"

"Can't talk for long. Staying on watch. They like the shadows. And the cracks along the walls, they like those."

"Take care of yourself, Angus."

"'bye, Dory."

When Angus set the receiver on its cradle, the room was silent and he listened intently for movements on the floorboards, in the walls. The walls. Angus moved. His joints protesting, he jumped and ran to the middle of his bedroom. Now he would have to watch all sides, but he would have more time to react. They could not sneak onto him from the wall. Into him. They liked the corners, he was sure, yes.

The nights were worse now. The overhead light had burned out. At one point, he had thought of going for the flashlight in a kitchen drawer. But he knew the flashlight was far in the back. Behind the appliance manuals. The coupons. The masking tape. The glue. He relied on the moonlight coming in the two windows. Night was worse too, because his body wanted rest. More than his mind.

Finally, the sun came to help. Smiling into the brightness, he didn't even worry about the holes in his memory. He thought he could remember swaying in the dark, fighting it, fatigue fluttering his eyes, once putting his hand out to catch himself. Hadda stay upright. Away from. The floor.

How many days and nights now? It did not matter. It was best not to think of such length. Better to concentrate on his vigil. Keep watch, guard. The fly swatter felt good in his hand.

There! He would bring it down with a snap on the floor.

Just the head of a nail.

Oh, time to rotate. He turned a quarter turn to the right, verifying the landmarks he knew so well now, the details of the floorboards. No movement. No insects. Just grains and knotholes and nail heads. Was that the doorbell? Must be about time for the mail.... Can't go. Can't leave the watch. So important. Besides. They have tricks, those silverfish, crafty. May not be anyone at all. A trick. Damn them.

In his mind he watched a movie. It was a short film, without a title. He watched himself casually unlatching the front door, obliviously pulling it wide, already thanking the mail carrier for the package, before even looking up. And then a close-up on his face, the smile dropping away to full realization of doom. And then an over-his-shoulder shot, of the tall black trenchcoated figure on the front step. As he stared helplessly into the bottomless coat, the whole medium of his dream was no longer film or vision, and the scene came to him more in words, because what he was seeing couldn't be fully realized or communicated, even with a creepy underlying soundtrack. The blackness of the figure's coat was impenetrable, as only that word could show it, describe it, make it. And the face of the black figure was even darker.

And even though he had never read this story before, or seen this movie, he knew what would happen next.

And still he could not run. Could not look away.

The coat rippled and sank and melted down.

As thousands and millions of silverfish and earwigs flowed out from under it, already moving across the threshold and up his legs.

And he could not stop screaming as they tickled up his chest toward his open mouth—

Angus opened his eyes to the light of the morning again. Oh, I. Gotta stay. Awake. Time to rotate. Squinting, he scrutinized the black space under the closet door. All clear. Safe. For now.

To his right—movement! Sliding toward him.

There! The fly swatter came down.

Just a piece of lint, rolling along.

Safe.

Angus saw he was in a great hall. He walked its length, admiring the towering pillars and the non-Euclidean architecture, unable to even recognize the alien glyphs, but enjoying them all the same. At the end of the hall was an elaborate silver throne, jeweled with stones whose depth and color threatened to steal his eyes forever. There was no one else in the hall, leaving silence that enabled him to hear the beating of his own heart. The throne was empty, and he considered sitting in its splendor.

Approaching the great chair, he noticed something small on the beyond-velvet cushion. There, in the middle of the great seat, barely visible, was a flat insect, grayish-silver. Upon seeing the creature, Angus felt a tinge of recognition, and stupefying puzzlement followed. Then he felt his lungs fill, and laughter erupted through his mouth. Look at that! Will ya?! I mean, just—How absurd! An insect. So small! It seemed he laughed for years, standing on the great marble steps.

There came a ringing. Distant, it would pause, and repeat at even intervals. It grew in volume. Angus turned to the sound, still laughing. Its chime too was familiar, in some distant way. Distant world.

Angus awoke in the middle of his floor. The wooden floorboards pressed against his cheek. He sneezed dust from his nostrils. The ringing continued. Phone, was what.

He sat up bolt, rolled to a crouch, the fly swatter before him in a two-handed samurai grip. I fell asleep. No. Oh no! Spinning in place, he scanned the floor. The phone rang again. Where...?! He scanned the floor. Only dust. But it was difficult to distinguish, with their color. The phone again. Where? There! He searched the space between himself and the phone. Clear. Safe. He crawled, quickly, on hands and knees. It choked on a ring as he picked up the receiver.

He held the receiver at arm's length before him. Where he could watch it.

"Hello? Who is there?" Fell asleep. Damn. Oh no.

"Angus?! Thank Jesus you answered." Dory. "Are you all right?"

Fell asleep. The room was dark. He looked to the window. The clouds allowed no moon tonight. They like the dark. Fell asleep. Damn. They come in through the ear.

"Angus? Answer me!"

"Fell asleep."

"You got some sleep? Good. Good! How do you feel?"

Where are they? They moved, I know. They were in the walls. Can't hear them anymore.

"I can't hear them."

"You can't...." Dory's trailed away. "Oh. Good, Angus. That's good. They're gone now?"

"Gone." Angus dropped the fly swatter. "But that doesn't mean what it means. Only, they're hiding. Is what it means." He watched the walls. "They're so crafty. So clever, they. They sneak."

"They're gone! They're gone, Angus!" someone was screaming. "All of them! It's all right! They're gone!"

"It only takes one." Holding his finger up before him, Angus stared at the pale digit, its bony joints. "Or two." He added a finger. "Take two, they're small, I always say." Angus stood up, looking at the floor where he had sat. "Where'd they go, those two?" He scratched his head. "Crafty little devils," he said to no one in particular.

"Gone! Angus?!!"

"I must go now," he said to the voice. "They must be found."

Angus hung up the phone.

While he descended the stairs, the phone again rang in its regular intervals, but somehow—like a story or a movie—frantically. Having work to do, Angus ignored it.

In the den, the books covered the floor. The furniture was overturned in the living room. A pick ax leaned next to the ruined piano, where strings and dampers were torn from the hole in the instrument's lid. Splinters littered the carpet. The dining room floor was strewn with shards of crystal and china. The oak hutch doors lay at opposite ends of the room. Cans of food covered the kitchen linoleum, amidst powders of opened cake mixes and cereal flakes and pasta shapes. The sponges and soaps and cleaning supplies seemed to have erupted from beneath the sink. The storage room contents, books and papers, were avalanched into the hall, their boxes ripped open.

Angus sat in the middle of the floor of his barren room. Crafty. Damn crafty, those two. Must be here somewhere. Someplace I haven't looked. I'll find them.

A ringing.

Outside his head this time. He had listened to silence for so long, his ears had come to ring incessantly. But this ringing came in intervals, and louder than the constant whine inside him. It took him a moment to realize. And when he did, it hurt. He tried to think of how to make the new noise stop. He looked around the empty room for its source. His gaze settled on the silver wire in the wall, trailing out to the hall, and he almost understood. He followed the wire with cautious steps, fly swatter in hand.

The first mess in the hallway had been his mattress—the now-formless and piece-meal (formerly inner) foam, then the gashed and gutted, now inside-out skin. He added to the dusty footprints on the maimed cushion, as he followed toward the sound. He trod over the carpet roll, stumbling. He kicked through the overturned desk drawers, pushed past the shattered desk. The ringing continued. He clambered over the calamity of books—spineless and mostly shredded.

He stared at the small shape on the top step, silhouetted there against the glow of a single light left on downstairs. Somehow, he knew, if he picked up the black plastic thing, the ringing would stop. He lifted the receiver. It talked to him.

"Angus? Hello?! Angus?" A voice. That voice. Somehow familiar. But, no time. They were lurking around. Somewhere, so crafty. "Are you all right?" The voice, still talking.

"Still looking." Angus said, looking.

"You're still looking?" The voice calmed somewhat.

"Can't stop to chat."

"Have you found any?" the voice wanted to know.

"Looked everywhere. Damn. So crafty."

"You've looked everywh...?" The voice tried to lie to him. "Maybe they've left the house, Angus. They're gone. It's okay now. You can just—"

"No. Still here."

"Okay, okay. I bet you've checked all the rooms, right? The den? The kitchen ... the closets? The..."

"They're good at this. Smooth. Haven't found them yet."

"...the attic?"

The attic. "My house doesn't have an attic," Angus said to the voice.

Then, he knew where they were.

Of course. Crafty.

"I know." Angus dropped the voice.

Hurry!

He ran to bathroom. Fell asleep, my mistake. The medicine cabinet was empty. He dropped to his knees, to the pile of cotton balls, disposable razors, dental floss dispensers, soap and lotion samples, combs, trial-size toothpaste tubes. Should've kept watch, stayed awake. He pawed through the items on the floor. They're smooth, so quiet.

Triumphant, Angus held up the tweezers.

Somewhere in the distance, a softened shout called for him to stop.

He jammed the metal tweezers into his ear, and twisted, still pressing.

Pain, oh! My eardrum, must've been. Keep digging. The attic, of course! Pain! They're deep. They like the dark. No time for a professional. Home surgery. Oh, pain! So crafty, them. Snuck in, crept. Deep inside. Darkest places. Pain. Find them. Find. Dig. Twist. Dig. Dig.

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