The Skipping Second Hand

The kitchen was the last place he wanted to be.

Harold walked in anyway – the brown paper bag rustled against his chest – and he set his groceries on the counter. His hands trembled and he started to grind his teeth as he put each item away. An artichoke jar almost slipped from his fingers but he caught it before it shattered on the tiles. His temples throbbed. His nostrils filled with a faint smell of spoiled milk.

When he walked by the table, daring a glance, his breath hitched.

Today’s paper – already a yellow flaking onion – sat there looking like it had made good friends with the lawn for a few weeks. He thought it might crumble if even a butterfly landed on it. Harold didn’t touch it.

He flicked the lights off and retreated to the living room. The man found himself cringing at the tortured creak of the cabinet hinges. It never could stay shut for long. He crumpled into the relief of his armchair. The table next to him overflowed with many unread books.

His knuckles turned pale as he made soundless music with his fingertips, watching the second hand on the clock on the mantle skipping in place again – a stagnant heartbeat. The room seemed to grow colder, as a draft snaked its way in under the gap in the front door. Harold drew his knees up to his chin and tilted his head back. It was then that he noticed the wallpaper was peeling in the corner. It looked like dead skin, hardly hanging on – just begging to slough off. He pressed his finger to it, holding it in place until it sagged back down. His tongue stirred with the taste of pennies.

Harold squirmed in his seat. He needed a drink now – something to wash down the awful taste building in the back of his mouth.

Something banged on door and he jumped to his feet. He couldn’t help but curl his toes into the fraying carpet.

“Just the screen door. Just the door.” Harold licked the fresh salt beading on his upper lip; he clenched his hands hard. His roughly chewed nails dug into his palms, already slick with sweat.

The noises had stopped and he could only hear himself breathing. He stayed on his feet, and snatched up the mug that he had left on the table that morning before work. Even if it was stale and cold, old coffee would have to do. Harold shut his eyes and drank deep.

He felt dozens of wriggling, twitching bodies spill back out of his mouth, running down his chin. He spat and spat as thick clumps of earwigs clung to his beard. Centipedes tickled his neck, and Harold pinched them, ripping them away before they could invade his nostrils. He dropped his mug, gagging and gasping, frantic to pull them off his face.

The carpet came alive with dark roiling waves as hundreds of replacements emerged from the cracks in the walls. The insects surged up to his waist and clung to his clothes like burrs. A storm of revulsion and panic rippled through Harold. His hands were wet and sticky, covered in soggy clumps of their crushed corpses.

His veins filled with ice when, all around him, unseen voices began to whisper.

“You locked all the doors, so we made a window.”

Harold screamed.