The Man in the Wall

Ian McLowski was halfway through smoking something his neighbor had given him when a man came out of his wall.

He should've been startled, but he'd seen stranger sights. Once, while shooting some dope an ex-girlfriend had scored for him, he'd seen worms crawling out of his skin. Another time it was a lake of blood and pus filled with floating corpses bobbing up and down in the water. Sometimes he'd even see two little shoulder demons squatting on his shirt. Most of the time he'd just hear them. The white one would tell him to knock off the funny business and get clean. It had his mother's voice. The black one would tell him screw that other guy, life's too short to not enjoy. His voice was soft, like the wind. Ian liked that one. That's the one he usually listened to.

A man emerging from drywall? Child's play for the young man.

Ian had been sitting on his couch with the window open to enjoy the cool air. A glass pipe sat in his hand, a lighter in the other. Winter in Phoenix was something to be cherished after enduring the grueling summer heat. Ian intended to soak up every bit of fresh air he could.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight, it was snowing.

Snow in Arizona was like a sighting of Sasquatch; not entirely impossible, but so rare that it had to be seen to be believed.

Ian hadn't seen snow since before his Dad left. It was a welcome sight.

He was nearly out of everything - hash, herb, dope, beer, you name it. Thank God his downstairs neighbor, Jill, could spot him until next week. He would've gotten the shakes and not been able to enjoy the rare sight of Phoenix snow. God forbid.

The tv had been on, showing reruns of some menial sitcom, when a crow with burning eyes had perched on the sill for a few moments. It stared at him before fluttering away into the night. A soft voice whispered in the wind, it's words indistinguishable, then it was gone.

He heard groaning from the wall underneath the dusty air vent. The blue paint on the wall began to peel in small patches, peppering the tan-colored carpet in tiny flakes. A crackling sound echoed in the pint-sized apartment. There was silence. Only the soft, idyllic roar of the television laugh track could be heard.

The outline of a short man with pawed fists bulged from the naked spot on the wall, just above the pile of paint chips. Ian heard a fierce screaming sound, then a bloodied hand emerged with a pop from behind the sheet rock. Its fingers danced, flinging red droplets onto the floor. White powder flew in a cloud from the hole. Another hand popped out, then a foot, then a head, then a whole body. Ian's bony body jumped in his seat. His bloodshot, baggy eyes were the size of dinner plates.

Ian didn't know it, but the man from the wall spelled death that night.

Ian recognized the man, though he looked much worse than he did in life. It was Abram, the local pawn shop owner who'd died two years ago during a mugging that went sour. He stood there, coated in plaster and dust, then looked at Ian with black circles for eyes. Streams of rouge and lavender streamed down cracked, pale cheeks. Splatters of blood were smeared across his clerk's shirt. Dried mud varnished his boots. He smelled of rot.

Ian's mouth dropped. The man from the wall was supposed to be dead. He'd gone to the old man's funeral and everything.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite customer," the dead man said. His voice sounded like sandpaper. "How are you, my old friend? Still got that knife I sold ya?"

"You're dead."

"Well, of course I'm dead! What, I can't say hello to the boy who made me rich all those years?"