BY MATT WEIR
Harold sat at the couch, counting his toe nail clippings, of which there were nine. Normally there would be ten. There were always ten, of course. He would meticulously count each clipping and lay them out on the table before sweeping them into the waste bin in one, neat swoop with a tissue.
This time–however–there had been a knock. Which was odd, because there hadn’t been knocking in quite some time.
Not since the incident.
But whether it was the door or the building’s old pipes, he couldn’t tell. He barely had enough time to realize he would have to spend the rest of the afternoon vacuuming up to ensure the pinky nail didn’t fester and rot in his carpet, that the knocking came again.
Harold sat there, plastered to the couch like some kind of junky, only the drug that coursed through his veins was sheer panic.
“If I don’t make any noise, am I even here?” he thought, brushing away the wirie strands of grey and white hair from his face.
Like a rabbit that has a predator on radar, he remained still and alert, watching the dust dance in the nicotine golden rays from the partially curtained window. Keeping motionless, his eyes darted around the room to the piles of books about the floor, to the collection of televisions opposite him. The boxy, monstrous one he always loved was old when he got it a decade ago. His eyes dance from the screen to the peeling wallpaper, with its yellow underside and faded designs. Anyone else would describe it as grandma’s favorite pastel floral patterns, but he hardly even noticed it anymore.
With his heart racing and his body so still he almost forgot to breathe, Harold thought he might just be in the clear after several minutes. But those several minutes seemed to last–as some writer in an amateur short story might describe–like hours.
Once the minute-hours passed and the knocking was no more, Harold decided it was time to find the lost clipping. As he stood up the plastic wrap on the couch made its familiar crunching noise and he shuffled along the path made to the vacuum closet. The piles of newspapers greeted him with yellow stained corners. Headlines of “Disease Spreads Across Continents” and “Source of New Sickness Unknown” which once screamed in bold ink now were muffled coughs, faded with time.
Past the papers. Past the collection of salt rock lamps, of which he knew there were exactly 14. Past the pile of empty suitcases from the height of different decades of American excellence and travel (of which there were 8, but who’s counting). He finally came to the closet, opened it and pulled on the single, string cord extending from the exposed lightbulb. The soft, yellow light turned on with a tug as electricity began singing through it.
Harold carefully maneuvered one of the vacuums–the newish one with the see-through dustbin–through the pile of parts, making sure not to displace anything.
“Would be terrible if I couldn’t find a piece when I start that project,” he thought to himself, casually glancing at the two other, much older vacuum cleaners tucked away in the back corner. Harold always hated it when he couldn’t find the single part he was looking for when in the middle of one of his projects.
Then, another noise.
Once again, Harold froze in his tracks.
*TAP TAP TAP*
Harold held his breath.
*TAP-TAP* pause. *Tap Tap Tap*
“Morse Code?” Harold thought. “Is someone trying to reach me?”
Which would’ve been very odd indeed because nobody had tried to reach him in quite some time. A spirit from beyond the grave, perhaps?
When he could hold his breath no longer, he let out a series of broken, soft sighs. Chunky waves of life from his lungs, equally trying not to make any noise while not choking on his own air.
Harold thought maybe he was just hearing things. Afterall, old apartments often make strange and unusual noises. Particularly when there is nobody around to maintain the interior workings. Or maybe the place had grown a mind of its own and was slowly trying to eat him whole, finally.
He closed the closet door, reopened it to check everything was in its place, and closed it again. He did this 2 more times.
“Never can be too careful,” he thought with a chuckle. “Especially when the apartment is trying to devour you.”
He remembered the last time he wasn’t careful. The time before. In those days, you could breathe the air outside without a worry.. He could remember all the shouting and laughing. The memories of people elbow to elbow, watching live music and singing along. Unsuspecting people would pass around bottles of liquor, or share marijuana cigarettes, unaware of the future to come. Unaware of what he would do. Things unthinkable now. But Harold had always known one day something would change. One day, he would happen.
“Yes, crazy and overly cautious they called me,” he found himself saying aloud, swiping the wiry white strands from his face. “But they all found out didn’t they?”
With a hum and a chuckle, Harold shuffled back to where the nail clipping went rogue, counting every step as he went like always (there were 47). He mustn’t stop counting. He mustn’t miscount. That could trigger another incident.
He slowly bent down and plugged in the vacuum. He walked over to the tower of televisions and turned on his favorite, Ol’ Boxy, then turned it off. On the sixth time, he left it on.
“Best not to take any chances,” he thought.
With the vacuum ready he clicked it on and off nine times, then began to count the number of strokes across the floor.
“In other news,” the tv anchor roared, “Hundreds gathered for the premiere of Angela Scott’s new film. . .”
“Yes, yes,” Harold thought. “No chances today. . . 10, 11, 12. . .we mustn’t have another incident. No, no, no we mustn’t. Things have just gone back. Yes, yes. And now I must make sure not to go and muck it all up again.”
But just then he heard another knock and screeched in horror as he lost the count.
