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Someone is screaming, a splitting sound that crashes through the walls and rings like shattering glass in my ears. I can’t move, I can’t feel my body—I can’t hear except for that shriek, drawn out so unnaturally long that I question whether the sound is human at all, and if it is, how long will the scream gush from their lungs like helium from a balloon, leaving the source empty, collapsed, and dead.
Something wet touches my cheek and suddenly I can move again. The bed springs back as Nico leaps off. He stops at the door and sits, tail thumping impatiently. I feel my own breath, pumping through my lungs, and sigh. Just a dream. Outside, a storm crashes over the house, knocking the windowpanes and dragging the old wood. The house squeals and creaks, terrified, like the whole thing is going to topple in and leave me crushed underneath.
I check my phone—4 a.m. Nico has to pee. I can’t get him to go through the doggy flap alone. I can’t get him to go anywhere alone. For the month we’ve lived here, he’s been as skittish as a kitten, jumping at every crack and loose floorboard, barking at nothing. If I don’t go with him now, he’ll pee right there on the floor.
I wait in the kitchen as Nico barrels into the storm. A clash of thunder shakes the house. The walls groan. A chill runs through me, and I suddenly feel very awake. Maybe I’ll make some tea.
I pick up a mug from the side of the sink and freeze. There is a hole in the wall about the size of my palm, looking like the mouth of an oversized black mamba.
I guess I should have expected something like this. It was a cheap house. My imagination, fed by festering anxiety, spins like a rodent in a wheel. Ugh, rodents. What kind of rats, termites, or other manner of pest might be burrowing through my walls? With tiny paws, gnashing pincers, or horns or stingers or eggs. Gushing through the rotting wood walls up to the master bedroom. A hole chewed through the headboard. A rat falling directly on my face. I shudder, yank open the cabinet under the sink and tug on thick yellow rubber gloves. Time for some spelunking.
Behind me, the doggy flap swings open and closed again as Nico pads back inside, soaking wet. He stops suddenly by the table and growls.
“We’ll go back in a minute,” I say to him. He barks, sharp and loud. “Shhh,” I hiss.
I stick my arm in the hole. Even through the glove, I feel the increase in temperature, the moistness on the bottom. Behind me, Nico whines. I grope around. Nothing furry or crawly lurking around. The only thing I feel in the hole is the splinters of broken wood on the bottom, and several soft spots where the wood is rotting. The sides of the wall are solid. No tunnels or gaps. I exhale. Behind me, Nico scratches at the ground, growls again.
“Just a second, Nico!”
My fingers touch the far end of the hole. Odd. It doesn’t feel like wood at all, but soft, delicate—almost like a layer of tissue paper. There’s a weird tingling in my stomach as I prod the barrier. Nerves, I suppose. This membrane could break at any second, and I’m starting to think that the colony is behind here. If I push through, I can catch them in their little rodent tea-party or whatever they’re doing. As soon as I know, I’ll run. I’ll get a taxi and stay over at Mom’s house if there’s any sign of them, any poop or fur or exoskeletons. But I have to know.
I close my eyes, poking the barrier so it strains to stay whole against my fingers. The pressure on my stomach increases. Nico is running in circles. He’s barking. He probably felt the pests from the beginning. I take a deep breath, and shove. The barrier tears easily, and a chunk of it catches in my hand as I plunge through to the other side.
I don’t feel anything. For a moment, I’m relieved.
I turn to Nico to reassure him. We can go to bed now. I can’t see him.
Blocking my vision is a rubber glove that used to be yellow. It is slick with blood, bright red and chunky. Hanging from the fingers is a slice of skin with ripped edges, thin as tissue paper.
Then I feel it. The rupture through my stomach. I fall. As my arm slips out of the wall, the rubber glove disappears back inside of me, leaving an open hole.
Dimly, I hear Nico howl. The sound fades behind the rush of the storm and the creaking of the house. But the house isn’t the one screaming. It was never the house. My voice empties from my lungs like helium from a balloon, or like blood from a fist-sized hole in my stomach.
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Sophie graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 2023 with majors in English (creative writing) and Cinema Studies. Her writing is inspired by the bizarre whims of her brain and anything strange that happens in real life. She is working on publishing her first book. In her spare time, Sophie likes to knit and play board games. Her unachievable life goal is to knit every single Pokemon. sophielynnnadel.wordpress.com
