Pest

By William Griner

21 George Street

Charleston, S.C.

Had Rudolph Minelli been so inclined, he might have used his laptop to write a horror story instead of the usual literary fare that had allowed him to buy this luxury condominium so far away from Massachusetts.

Minelli could imagine the conversation he would have with his agent if he pitched the idea.

"Rudy, Rudy," Gordon would say in his best condescending tone, "why do you want to kill me by taking on Stephen King? You got your piece of the pie, right?"

And Minelli, familiar with this conversation, would nod and smile and provide his own line. "And no one depresses married, middle-aged women looking for love than I do."

"Correct, my friend – and where would a guy like you find material for a scary book anyway?"

Minelli shook his head and cursed. Even the thought of this imaginary conversation vexed him. That wasn't the reason, however, why he threw back the covers and sat up in bed. If he wanted to satisfy his agent's curiosity about a source of material, he could just call Gordon Lamarr, who was safe in his own apartment in New York, and place the cell phone up to the wall.

Scratch, scratch.

Pause.

Scratch, scratch.

Sitting here in the darkness, with nothing to distract him from hearing that infernal racket, another sensation struck him, the musky scent of a rodent that emanated from … where? The walls? Under the bed? Minelli lived in one of the most upscale places in the city, right in the heart of the downtown business center, where everything was just a walk away. Part of what had sold him on this place was how he could walk out on his balcony and enjoy the view of the shopping district. Now all he wanted was to go find his car in the gated parking garage and drive away.

Scratch, scratch.

Pause.

Scratch, scratch.

Minelli reached across to his night stand and switched on the small lamp so he could see the floor. His heart picked up the pace in his chest; his mind played with the language. If the furry body of a filthy rat flitted across his foot …

Uhhh.

Soon, every light in the condo was on, and there the great novelist was, planted on the sofa with his laptop, feet drawn up so they wouldn't touch the floor. He was too exhausted to write but too shaken to return to bed. It wouldn't bother him quite as much if the animal noise wasn't so … deliberate? Was that aspect just his imagination playing games with him? The pest control expert he had brought in to examine his home, and who had returned multiple times over the last four months, had insinuated as much.

He moved to the kitchen long enough to make tea and returned to the sofa.

TV? No, he didn't want to start a movie on cable, and the only network offerings at 2:15 a.m. would be infomercials on new innovations in cookware.

Email, he decided, logging into his account. Minelli could use this time productively for catching up on business, returning messages and accepting invitations to speaking engagements. Oh, how he loved to visit the universities across the country for –

There she was, like clockwork.

Ms. Gypsy.

Scrolling down, he counted three different messages from her that had arrived in the last two hours.

Minelli had met the user of this email address in person while he was signing copies of "Betray Me Again" at a writer's conference. Students needed to make a connection with him, not because he was Rudolph Minelli the prize-winning author but because he was a celebrity, so the fact that this young lady had lingered and asked questions had not surprised him. Her questions had been insightful enough, however, that he asked her to join him for drinks as soon as he could break away from the conference. Long after that evening, their correspondence had continued.

He clicked and read, clicked and read. As he was musing about the email sender's thought processes, Minelli noticed movement to his left, from the direction of his bedroom. His peripheral vision might just be playing tricks on him because he was so tired, but he could have sworn …

Hot tea.

Reaching for the cup on the coffee table, he gulped, savoring the burn in his mouth and throat as he swallowed. Minelli wanted to be alert. He couldn't shake this notion that there was something going, that forces beyond his understanding were toying with him.

Finally, senses heightened and mind cleared by the tea, he appraised the situation. So what if a rat was running around in the condo? Sure, it was ridiculous that Minelli's space might have rodents given how much he paid to live in luxury, but this particular problem could be remedied. Maybe his hyper-focus stemmed from not having a more suitable distraction. Was it just another sign that he should stop living alone? Well, he had a prospect that seemed willing to help out there, right?

Anyway, he would call the exterminator first thing at 8 a.m. and be firm this time. If this particular business couldn't do a simple job, well, there were others in Charleston who would be willing to take Rudolph Minelli's money.

As for the rat? Well, as much as the idea made Minelli's skin crawl, what if it ran across his feet? He might yell and look silly, but who would see it? What if, instead of the settling of the sheets on his legs as he stretched out on his king-sized bed, he felt the scurrying presence of …

Nope, Rudolph, old buddy, you were doing fine until you went there.

Disgusted at his own fear, he climbed off the sofa and scooted through the French doors to the balcony. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, but at some point, the mugginess of the July morning brought beads of perspiration to his forehead. He consciously felt that he was getting tired enough to sleep. He would read the last email and finish his rest on the sofa instead of the bed.

Ms. Gypsy's urgency puzzled him, as it always did. He had maintained a stream of messages back and forth to her while he worked on his latest project, "Hearts in the Balkans," so there was no reason he could discern for her tone:

"Ignoring me? I get it. I realize that I have my small place and that you're a big-time writer, but you could at least acknowledge me and tell me what's going on! Is it so hard for someone as good with words as you are to make the briefest of contact?

"One of these days, Rudolph, you're going to want me around and I'll be gone. Maybe I won't wind up with a big-time celebrity who has no time for little people, but I'll have someone who appreciates me and who can show common courtesy.

"Did I do something wrong? Please, just tell me if I did! You know that I only want the best for you!"

Minelli sighed. Where did she find time to be a student? Did she ever eat or sleep? How could she read his works or anyone else's when she was constantly emailing and demanding responses?

How was he supposed to write the books she claimed to love when she monopolized Minelli's every waking hour?

His fingertips brushed the laptop's keyboards, but he stopped without typing a word. Face twisted into a grimace, he jumped off the sofa and stomped around the living room, wondering again why he allowed this woman to get under his skin. Left with these messages full of histrionics, a frustrated Minelli couldn't remember what he had ever found charming about his poison pen pal.

A breeze whistled through the open French doors. Minelli, realizing that he was not going to sleep, stepped back on to the balcony. He leaned on the railing, staring back toward the living room, and allowed the warm wind to blow over him.

And it was then, resting there, that he saw the furry shape race toward him from beneath the sofa, darting straight at his bare feet.

Startled, Minelli's mouth opened.

He jerked his feet up, meaning to sit on the railing so the rat wouldn't touch him, but the thing sprang upward and nipped his shin, and Minelli fell backward into the night. Too surprised to yell, he clawed at empty air on his short voyage downward.

The fall should have only broken bones. Instead, Minelli landed on his head and died quickly.