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.