Their brains are like porcupines
The edges of the house are darker than the surrounding gloom, drawing in the little light that picks out sharp things and crumblings and cracks. Where there’s grass on the lawn it is dry and brittle, and crunches with every step. Chitinous bodies of dead ants appear clustered around the edges of the crazy paving which stumbles towards the front door.
There is a low, ringing hum, like whispering over the tops of empty milk bottles. The man with the rubbery face stops, focuses, sweat beading on his forehead. Hum, once, and then again. Eventually he realises it’s his breath, each exhalation echoing in his head. The wind gusts, whipping the edges of his coat, prompting him forward. And then futher forward, through the door with the fake wrought iron ring for a handle, into a hallway that is gauzy with dust and cobwebs and damp.