In the Walls

They live in the walls around here. Tapping on the pipes and whispering to vermin. Clutching an old diamond ring or your missing lucky so-and-so. Listening.

Some say that it's good luck to have one. A house is better than an apartment, blue or a west-facing wall best of all. How arbitrary, or is it? Who comes up with these things? The same people who sell the accouterments, you can bet.

You know. The fancy frames and decals to go around cracks and holes (these have to be natural, apparently). The "tremblers" and dowsing rods. Those little journals and fact books. The tracking boxes and copper cones to listen, or to speak. Imagine that. I can't. Is it a prayer, or like an angry hex on your neighbor? What happened today at work or in line at the grocers? What do you say?

Sometimes they supposedly pick someone to watch and bless. People who want their attention leave sweet foods or worse, little animals. Always white with no blemishes, they say, or the mirrors blacken and the water turns slimy, and then you get a horrible streak of bad luck. They're supposed to send you dreams if it works. I wonder how many pink-eyed pets are piled up just past the baseboards. What's weird is there's never a smell.

The whole thing's creepy, but it's just something you grow up with, like being Catholic or knowing the intimate details of your sister's allergies. Normally I wouldn't give it the time of day, but lately, I'm having these weird random thoughts and daydreams, and I think I know this week's winning Cash 5 numbers.

Damn. I'd better get to the pet store before it closes.