Behind the Wall

113 Behind the Wall Alissa Nutting I heard it first at night. Two squeaks, then a nibble. I stood on the bed fearing tiny fangs at my toes. “It’s coming from the wall,” he said. “There are mice in the wall.” It’s true, there were many, many mice. Over time I stopped hearing the yips and scratches. They became house-noises, full floorboards creaking. Then one day I hung a picture. I felt handy in my heart. I wore a tool belt and was careful for my thumb. “Thud,” went the hammer, then “Squeak!” I had nailed a picture and a mouse at the same time. It chirped loudly for a second, then not at all. I pictured it impaled and twitching, leaking blood onto untreated wood. If I removed the nail I would hear a plop. So I left it. I hung a photo of our wedding day. Behind the wall, it is sinking to a wooly, grey fig. Soon there will be only bones. Soon the skeleton will lose its skin like hair, balding in patches that spread. The ribs will fall like china toothpicks , and I may hear the scrape of a pygmy chalkboard. The rattle of a miniature chime. I may scream in its delicate clank and curse all able ghosts. ...