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Today I’m offering up the second(ish) draft of my short story “Tap, Tap, Tap.”  Subscribers will have access to the full story; everyone else, enjoy the first part, which sets up the tale of an oddly large beetle with telepathic abilities.

Forgive the odd formatting of the text below; I’m in a bit of a rush and don’t have the time to reformat everything.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Bill woke up, bleary with sleep, to the sound of the tapping.

“What now?” he groused, tossing aside his thin blanket. Bill scratched his face, feeling the scruff. I need a good shave, he thought, stretching as he got up.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

There it was again. Must be the pipes. Didn’t the plumber just fix them last week? Bill proceeded to the bathroom and stared at his eyes, still filled with the crust of restless sleep, in the mirror. They were a peculiar shade of emerald green, ringed with dark bags; Bill stretched one eyelid, then the other, as he peered at the bloodshot veins in the grimy mirror.

He splashed some water onto his face. Well, it’s not the pipes… it’d better not be the wiring. Bill picked up his toothbrush, one that had battled plaque far too many times, its bristles gnarled and flattened like a sheep with too much static electricity had a collision with a garbage truck. Bill tossed the brush into the trash and headed to the kitchen.

Tap. Tap. Taptaptap!

It was getting louder now. “Geeze, I can’t afford another repair,” Bill muttered to himself. The kitchen paid testament to Bill’s frustrated utterance. A forlorn and ancient stove sat in the corner, two burners missing. The stovetop was covered in a thin layer of grime, the accumulation of a thousand hasty, one-pan meals. The counters were strewn with crumbs and old newspapers. The fridge, sitting opposite the stove, chugged and moaned, releasing a death rattle every time its compressor shut down. The sink had a persistent, slow drip, which Bill had tuned out long ago.

Taptap! Tap! Ta-tap!

But that tapping! That was new. Bill pulled a half-washed pan from the sink, gave it a quick rinse, then put it on of the two remaining burners. He grabbed a couple of eggs from the fridge, and cracked each into the pan, tossing the shells over his shoulder and into the garbage.

TAP!

Just one this time, near the kitchen trash can. Bill sighed. “Okay, what is going on here,” he said aloud.

Bill felt a tad sheepish—he was utterly alone. Ever since Mirna split two months ago, he’d fallen into a state of squalor. He’d also developed the habit of talking to himself during the long, lonely hours at home. Bill had given up on finding any decent work in the papers about a month ago, but didn’t have the heart to throw the old rags out. Maybe, he had thought after Mirna left, if I can get back on my feet, she’ll take me back.

He shook away the memory of her leaving—of the months of fruitless job and soul searching—and, in a rare moment of renewed self-confidence, resolved to get to the bottom of this tapping business—and then, maybe, to the bottom of the bottle he kept in one of the fading cabinets.

Tap tap! Tap tap!

Bill walked slowly toward the trash. There was something different about this tapping. It didn’t sound electrical, or like the tapping in pipes. It sounded almost organic. As he reached to move the trash can, a prick of pain seized the ring finger of his left hand.

He cried out a slew of curses, shaking his hand in a vain attempt to exorcise the sharp pain. His ring finger throbbed purple-red. At least the skin’s not broken. Bill heard a rapid series of taptaptaptapping as he stumbled towards the fridge for ice.

As he opened the door to the freezer, Bill felt something on his leg—a tentative, careful tap. Bill whirled around, slamming the door of the freezer, sending a dark object running back behind the trash can.

“What in the world…” Bill trailed off. There was a rustling behind the trash. I have to see what this thing is, he thought, but I’m not about to get bitten again. Bill’s eyes darted across the room, finally spotting a broom, gathering dust more from lack of use than from its intended purpose. He snatched the broom and, slowly—ever so slowly—pushed it towards the trash can.

Whack! He thwapped the trash can aside, and the dark object skittered up the wall. There it is! Bill thought. “It” was about three feet long and moved with astonishing rapidity. Bill still couldn’t quite make out the thing in the dim kitchen, but he swung the broom like a frantic knight, hacking away at the wall.

Taptaptaptaptaptap! The tapping sounded a rapid tattoo as Bill chased the thing with the broom.

Smack! There it was—Bill hit the thing square in its center of mass, and it fell from the wall, stunned.

Bill peered down—and the thing peered back. Bill stared, transfixed, as the thing reached out, slowly, and gave Bill a single, light tap.

Bill collapsed onto the floor, astonished. The creature before him—for it was, indeed, a creature—bore a strong resemblance to a beetle, but one that would surely be the largest such creature of its kind. The beetle stared up at Bill with four large, black, compound eyes. It emitted a light chittering sound from between its two large mandibles, each of protruded six inches from the head. Its belly was a deep, greenish brown, like moss growing on a dark patch of dirt. Its large, dense shell shimmered with a hypnotic luminescence, shifting subtly through the color spectrum with the creature’s movements. Six legs—four from the thorax, two from the abdomen—twinkled with a more muted luminescence, blending softly into the moss brown belly. The creature stood on two legs and reached towards Bill with the other four.

The beetle—Bill didn’t really know how else to identify it—chittered again, its voice rising to a flute-like tone. There was a sweetness to it, like all of Bill’s best memories were swirled together into a single melody. Beneath it was a gentle tap.

Transfixed, stuck in the beetle’s melodious trance, Bill let the creature’s four shimmering, spindly arms touch his face.

Bill.

Is that the bug? Bill thought.

Yes, Bill. But “bug” is not exactly the precise terminology.

Sweet mother of pearl, this thing is talking to me!

Indeed. You and I are, in this moment, joined.

“Joined?” What do you mean? And you’re not a bug?

What I am is of little consequence, Bill. What I can do is what matters.

What you can do? I—

Your life, it is… pathetic, no? Unfulfilled—

Now, wait just a minute here! Sure, things have been t—

I can change that.

Bill paused. Rather, his internal dialogue with the beetle ceased—his mind still raced. Finally, he replied, hesitantly, How?

A thousand images flooded Bill’s mind. Mirna in the dress she wore the night he said he loved her. His tenth birthday, when he finally got the silver-blue ten-speed he’d begged his parents to buy. His first kiss. His first car. His first promotion.

Then new images, images of things yet-to-come, images beyond his wildest imaginings, took the place of the happy memories. Wealth. Power. Success.

Mirna.

The beetle removed his four arms from Bill’s head with a faint tap. Bill set up slowly, holding his forehead, feeling the shallow indents where the beetle had touched him.

“I understand.”

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