Marching

He could hear them, march­ing through the walls. Always march­ing, always on the move, infil­trat­ing every por­tion of the house. He had nev­er real­ly believed that ter­mites were real before, always fig­ured they were just some sil­ly thing that peo­ple made up to fill a need in com­mon mythol­o­gy. But now they were here. They had found him, found his house, found his walls, walls all made of wood, and they were march­ing, march­ing, march­ing. March­ing day and night, march­ing through his dreams, march­ing into his ears and through his head. At night he kept think­ing they would come out of the walls soon, that any moment he might feel the tick­lish tramp of their tiny feet tram­pling across his skin. They were march­ing, and he knew they would be march­ing so for­ev­er.

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