Arthur didn't believe in ghosts, but he believed in tinnitus. For weeks, a low-frequency hum had been vibrating through his jawbone, a sound like a wet finger circling the rim of a crystal glass. It only happened in his new apartment—a converted textile mill with floorboards that bled sap when the heaters kicked on.
He found the first "offering" in the bathroom sink: a single, perfectly intact human molar.
Arthur felt his own teeth with his tongue—all accounted for. He flushed the tooth, chalking it up to a previous tenant's gross negligence. But the next night, the hum grew louder, blooming into a wet, rhythmic thumping coming from inside the drywall.
He pressed his ear to the paint. Behind the plaster, something was dragging itself upward, the sound of skin peeling off a sticky surface. Then, a voice—thin as a razor wire—vibrated directly into his inner ear:
"It's too tight in here, Arthur. I can't stretch my legs."