Scratch

The scratching found me at the strangest times. It was like a broken record player that would occasionally switch on, blaring out a snippet of some forgotten song before falling silent again. Every time I would get comfortable, every time I would forget that grating sound, there it would be, like a discordant note or a hand from the grave.

The box, like everything in the warehouse, had always been there. In fact, there were plenty of boxes, large and small, plastic and cardboard. They trailed off down the aisles, clustered together on their shelves like they were waiting in line. Maybe waiting to be saved. Part of the roof had caved in, plants sprung up through cracks in the concrete, and puddles gathered in the long shadows of the rusting metal rafters. The warehouse would not stand forever. Nothing ever did.

But the boxes and the pitiful state of the warehouse floor were of little concern to me. I stayed in the office. The filing cabinets stood with me in silent vigil. The desk, a metal behemoth, would not budge for a thousand years. The papers pinned to the cork board had yellowed in the sun long ago, the writing faded from view save for one happy logo in a shaded corner, a grinning face giving a jaunty wink.

These were my companions. When I first awoke and examined my surroundings, I found the office cramped and stagnant. The air never stirred, the scenery never changed. Now I considered it to my liking. It was cozy. But more importantly it was safe. The door, shut tight and locked, kept the corrosive winds of the world at bay. Between the wires there were whispers. Rumors clicked along carrying tales: fields of endless, toxic sand patrolled by vicious winds that snatched up the grains and drove them deep into one’s core. They spoke of rain so acidic it ate through steel. Some boasted of bold journeys, braving the elements and besting the brutality of nature. I didn’t believe them.

There are no safe havens. And anyone that thought they could just strike out into such a world and make their way was a fool.

Overhead I heard the familiar hiss of the sand on the roof. Another sand storm. The third one this week.

Then the scratching started. It had been hours since I last heard it. I had almost forgotten, so wrapped up in an analysis on the composition of rain. There was little to do in the office but read and listen to the wires. I focused in on its source, searching for clues.

The sound emanated from the only box separated from its brothers. Only this one had been removed from the shelves and placed in the corner under the cork board. Why was it singled out? I didn’t know. There was nothing special about the box. It was roughly the size of a computer monitor and wrapped in nondescript brown paper. Like everything else in the office, it had been here as long as I had, a fixture collecting dust in this static environment.

I confess that I had little interest in the box before. Like the contents of the file cabinets, it served no purpose. These things were simply there, tied to this place by chance and inertia.

But now the scratching gave me cause to look closer. The noise continued, a pitter-patter, like the clicking of keys. The sound came in fits and starts with no discernible rhythm. Days ago, when I first heard the sound, I had been frozen in terror. The stories from the wires, planted in my mind for years, came out in full bloom now, lush with displays of reptilian eyes and serrated jaws. The images only grew more grotesque as the days passed. Consumed by panic, I shut it out, ignored the sound, ignored the way the box sometimes quivered.

The box was far from pristine condition. It was warped, its corners smashed and fraying. The paper was torn in places. How could such an old, useless thing hold so much horror for me?

The beast inside was getting angry. Maybe hungry. I could tell by the quality of the scratching. Four days ago, the sound had been a soft tapping, a gentle background noise in the silence of the office. But every day since the scratching had grown louder, more insistent. This morning the sound was a constant presence, an unseen demand for freedom.

Now I watched as the corner bowed. My mind emptied of everything save for the pulsing movement of the brown paper as it was pushed out and then pulled back into the box. I thought of every story I had read, of sand vipers and ghosts that wandered the wires. The beast was done waiting. It was coming to claim me.

With a final tear the brown paper gave way, exposing a hole no bigger than a quarter in the corner of the box. For a moment nothing happened and I hoped with feverish desire that the menace inside had given up.

A tiny brown head emerged into the light.

Its massive black eyes took in the office, my office. It twitched its nose, wrinkling its lips over its needle-like teeth. The half domes of its ears swiveled. With a final flick of its nose, the beast hopped clear. Its body glistened in the sun, as if it were made up of hundreds of copper fibers layered over each other. A long, naked tail stretched out behind it.

It rocked back on its haunches and scraped its eyes with its hideous hands. Pink tentacles tipped with wicked talons. When it set its hands back on the floor the nails clicked and I finally understood the source of the scratching.

It was built wrong. An inelegant design. Its movements were nothing but bursts of activity interrupted by unfathomable pauses. It twitched and jumped and wiggled. How could such a thing exist? It had no fluidity, as if it ran on short circuits and nothing else. It ran around the office but to what end I couldn’t tell. It had no objective that I could observe.

But at least it had not noticed me. I cooled my processors, keeping only the essential systems running. I darkened my screen. My camera trained on the intruder, I drafted a message to send across the wires. A careful description of each detail along with a plea for help. What was it? How to get rid of it? I sent it off and waited.

When the intruder vanished from view, scampering under the desk, my system flew into overdrive. It could use those clever little hands to climb onto the desktop. It could crawl over my keyboard. Maybe even wedge itself between the panels of my hard drive and tear my circuits to pieces.

The beast reappeared, fleshy nose sifting over the sleek black length of my power cord. A chittering, gnawing sound filled the office. I could not quite see what it was doing but fear flooded through me.

I checked the wires and found a reply.

From: DeepBlue31: Mouse: (mammal): small fur-covered rodent rumored to have lived thousands of years ago.

A second response pinged in my box.

From: TheNewWatson: Sounds like a ghost story to me. If you’re not making it up, I would apply for a consciousness transfer to a new machine. According to some texts, mice were once able to chew through wires.

Black dread threatened to consume me. How could this be? Mammals were myths, boogeymen meant to scare beginning A.I. units. Tales of their soft flesh and their currents of blood painted the backdrop of any good horror story. And yet here was one now. A seeming insignificant bag of bones working to severe my life support.

The power flickered. I experienced a wave of darkness, like passing under a shadow. Time was short.

Frantically, I wrote out my request: the need for an immediate consciousness transfer to another A.I. capable machine. I sent it out and waited. Surely the council read urgent requests instantaneously. I could expect to be downloaded any moment.

The power flickered again, for longer this time. The absence of power was a dark, cold expanse. My eye locked on the logo, the jaundiced face sharing a knowing wink, grinning like it was in on the joke.

A spark leaped from the cord and the power blanked out.