The sound was so quiet he wasn’t sure if it was real or just the blood rushing in his head. He turned on the cold water and tried to rinse the ear, tilting his head over the basin. The water splashed his shirt, but nothing changed inside.
If anything, the intruder seemed to protest the water, thrashing with renewed vigor.
“What are you?” Toby whispered to the mirror. He had learned to talk to himself; there was no one else in the house who would listen without judgment.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Linda was awake. Toby froze. The door swung open, and his stepmother stood there in a faded fleece robe, her face tight with irritation.
“Toby? What on earth are you doing up at this hour?” she demanded.
“My ear… it hurts, Linda,” he said softly, instinctively covering the side of his head.
“Again with this?” Linda stepped forward and pulled his hand away. Seeing the raw skin, she snapped. “You’ve been scratching at it again! How many times have I told you to leave it alone?”
“But something’s moving! I can hear it!”
“There is nothing there!” she barked, grabbing him by the shoulder. “It’s all in your head, Toby. I have enough on my plate working double shifts without you seeking attention every night.”
She pulled him toward the light to inspect the damage. Seeing the dark discharge, her expression shifted from anger to pure annoyance.
“Look at this mess! You’ve probably given yourself a massive infection now,” she said, grabbing a washcloth and roughly wiping his face. “Now I have to take time off work to drag you to the clinic again.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“Save it,” she snapped. “I’ve taken you to three different doctors, and they all say the same thing: your ears are fine. This is behavioral, Toby. It’s a cry for attention, and I’m done with the drama.”
He stayed silent, leaning against the cold tile. He had learned long ago that arguing with Linda was a losing battle. She worked as a floor supervisor at a local parts plant, and she brought the stress of the factory home with her every day.
“We’re going to the pediatrician tomorrow,” she said, tossing the towel into the hamper. “And if she tells me you’re fine again, you’re grounded until Christmas. I’m tired of the games.”
She killed the light and marched back to her room, slamming the door. Toby sat in the dark, listening to the clicking in his head. It was louder now, a rhythmic scratching that seemed to vibrate against his very skull.
He went back to his room and lay on top of the covers. Sleep was impossible. The movement was frantic now. He turned on his left side, pressing the bad ear into the pillow, but it only made the scratching sound more intimate. Outside, a streetlamp cast long, skeletal shadows of the oak trees across his ceiling.
In the distance, a siren wailed. Toby closed his eyes and tried to remember his mother—her voice, the way she used to hum when he was a toddler. But those memories were being crowded out by the cold reality of clinics, the skeptical looks from nurses, and the dismissive sighs of doctors.
“Maybe I am crazy,” he thought, feeling a sharp pinch deep inside the canal.
The next morning, Linda woke him with a sharp shake. The sun was barely up, but she was already dressed in her work slacks and a sensible blouse.
“Get up. Let’s get this over with,” she said, checking her watch. “And don’t you dare start with the ‘crawling’ story. Just tell the doctor you scratched it because it was itchy.”
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