White Noise

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He cleaned his dishes.

After a long day glued to his phone, the back of his throat the consistency of sandpaper from hours of phone calls, he relished the opportunity for contemplation.

The warmth of the soapy water soaked into his hands as he worked through the pile of dirty plates and utensils in his sink, the heat soothing ingrained tension in his arms. His chest swelled with deep breaths of humid air scented with marinara and beef fat as he leaned into the comfortable blanket of white noise that enveloped him: the convivial hum of kitchen appliances, chattering amongst themselves with enthusiasm; the gentle scrape of his sponge against damp ceramic; the sheet of sound that rippled from the running tap; the crash of waves of wind through the trees outside his small apartment.

Despite the soreness at the back of his throat a spontaneous hum of contentment escaped his lips. Thoughts fluttered through his consciousness: moths drawn to the light of indecision over what to do once the dishes were finished. His listless gaze gravitated towards the off-white orb of the streetlamp outside, only just visible between the half-shuttered blinds as it flickered in the thrashing shadows of the leaves.

A show or a movie might be good, mused a thought, absent of enthusiasm, crushed by the burden of having to choose something from the long list of friends’ recommendations. Maybe a book, or…

The heavy, erratic buzz of a fly derailed his train of thought. Fresh agitation festered behind his brow as its unpredictable thuds against the window stuck in his ears, keeping his attention fixated on when next it would hit the glass. He gave the window a glare, his eyes darting across the pane. But against the darkness of the night he could not catch signs of movement.

Hoping to push the sound out of his attention he doubled down on the dishes, focusing his annoyance into scraping charred meat and tomato off of the bottom of his cast iron pan. As if released by his distraction, uncomfortable thoughts resurfaced in his head. His mind returned to the conversation from earlier that had laid simmering in the back of his mind, a cocktail of guilt and discomfort in its tow.

“Have you seen Sarah?”

The tear drenched words echoed in his memory, the image of Matt’s red eyes and damp cheeks so vivid that he swore he felt their gaze boring into him. He remembered how the silence had closed around the two of them in that moment, how heavy it had felt, how thirsty for sorrow.

“She went for a walk last night in the evening and…I’ve been trying to text her all day but nothing is going through. Has she messaged you or anything?”

“I’m really sorry, I haven’t been in touch with her. I’ll let you know if I do hear anything.”

His response echoed in his mind, his thoughts turning over the empty sympathy of it. Surely there was more you could have said or done.

More flies added themselves to the hubbub at the window, drawing him back to the present. He stopped his scrubbing, craning his neck to try and catch sight of movement. The droning menagerie bashed themselves against the glass with a violent fervor that got under his skin. Despite his craning, despite his staring, he could see no sign of them.

More flies, more and more, their tempo picking up. In his ear the sound was far too close to the sound of someone tapping long nails on the outside of the window. He let the pan drop, shuddering at the grating crunch it made against the sedimentary layer of crumbs that coated the metal sink. In one swift motion he pulled the blinds open, a medley of frustration and confusion boiling over in his mind as he scanned the corners of the window for the sudden swarm of insects.

Still, no physical sign of flies. Only the accelerating cacophony of fearful buzzing and taping against the glass. He took a step back from the sink, the hiss of water from the faucet taking on a new, unsettling timbre. The tapping against the window turned to visible shaking. He froze, confusion paralyzing him. A rhythm appeared from within the din: three heavy strikes against the glass that repeated over the chaotic rumbling of the window. A familiar rhythm, the cadence of a voice. In the depths of the unrelenting rhythm he swore he heard screaming.

“Let me in, let me in!”

In the moment, fear overriding his thoughts, he inched back to the sink. Only now did he see them: two pale fists in the dark, hammering upon the outside of his window. In the shadow of the night, the haggard contour of Sarah’s face faded in and out of view, a faint glow of fear in her eyes.

“Let me in, let me in!”

Panic consumed him, his own surprise and terror leaping up his throat. Not thinking, forgetting that he was on the second floor, he flung the window open. The screech of rusted metal joined the hum of flies and pounding of flesh against glass, piercing his ears as the sharp night air cut against his cheeks.

And then silence.

A profound, overwhelming silence, all consuming. He stood, confusion needling at his brain as he stared outside.

A new sound intruded: a low, humming drone. The sound of a distant swarm.

At once it sunk into his skull, the auditory equivalent of a ghost stain on a white shirt, only visible to someone who knows where to look. “The hell is that?” he muttered, turning off the tap to get a better grasp of the sound. With the viscosity of oil the low buzz filled the space once occupied by the sound of running water. His ears told him the sound grew louder. Not louder, deeper. The more space the sound occupied the more it flowered, the more profound, distinct details he could hear within. Fear at the back of his raw throat he paced the kitchen, seeking the sound’s source as his ears absorbed the manifold depths of the intrusive sound. He thought he heard a voice lurking within the web of sound: a soft, gentle, welcoming, voice that seemed pleased to find ears to fall upon.

“Come to us.” The words fluttered against the inside of his skull, moths of sound buffeting against the light of his thoughts. That voice… His gaze once more settled on the orb of light outside his window, on the sharp shadows it cast against the trees writing in the wind, catching the moment something large and amorphous moved before it.

Terror overpowered him at the smothering of the light. He dashed from the kitchen into the living room, the need to drown out the drone with loud music or an explosive movie burning in his mind. His nose burned as he inhaled the cold air, the crisp, green scent of frost on spring leaves rushing into his nostrils.

“How…” he muttered, vertigo tugging at his head. The empty street stretched before him, the light of the streetlamp catching against the gritty surface of unkempt asphalt and egregious potholes. He turned, looked up, his heart dropping as his eyes caught the light from his apartment window above him.

The wind stilled as he stared in disbelief, the heavy drone rolling against his back, digging into his muscles. Static prickled the hairs on the back of his neck, his eyes descending to stare at his elongated shadow in the light, fresh terror clawing at his throat as he noticed a second human shadow merging with his.

Once more he turned, and felt his jaw drop.

It hovered before him. A narrow, vertical ellipse haloed in white light, a few meters above the ground. A film of static bubbled around its circumference, the space within its dark mass swarming with undulating masses of insects’ wings. Awe washed across his mind, his head buzzing, his eyes darting across its dark surface, not sure where to focus. Human hands drifted half-seen within the shadowed mass. Strange faces, too gaunt, too long to be human, pressed through the film of shadow as though rising out of water, delight etched into their winged mouths.

Terror coursed through his heart, yet also a sense of…joy? Exultation? The buzzing in his head, a thick drone as if bees had gotten into his skull, made it hard to grasp what he felt.

“Do not be afraid,” it said, its voice a balm in his ear against the harsh buzz. “Come, join us.”

A cry for help tried to escape his gaping mouth but found itself deafened, a buzz vibrating the inside of his cheeks, pins and needles sending waves of static through his mouth. Confusion, fear, nausea churned in his stomach, his tongue testing sharp, vibrating growths poking from the backs of his teeth. His knees buckled, that sense of nausea overpowering his will, his stomach relinquishing its contents. Thick, red streaked chunks of matter spilled from his mouth, twitching dragonfly wings sprouting from many small, dark holes across their slick surfaces. Blunt surprise blanketed his mind as he watched his vomit take flight to join the cloud before him.

“Come, join us,” the voice said once more, its kindness jarring against the searing pain in his arms. He stared in dismay at the countless pits growing across his skin, squirming with sharp things trying to escape and take flight. Fuzzy spots spread across his vision, an uncomfortable pull tugging at his eyes as insectoid wings pushed their way out of his pupils and tickled at the insides of his sockets.

He screamed, one final agonized, terrified scream, a thick stream of sharp wings billowing from his throat before his consciousness failed him, his body evaporating into a droning mist.
And then silence.

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