In the far off parlour room, Reid could hear for a brief moment, a low hum. He peered over the accumulation of books and papers that were piled high on his desk in which his rat, Syphilis, stood atop, chewing the binding of an ancient and molding dictionary. Reid continued working, assuring himself it was a hallucination induced by the rhythmic tapping of the typewriter keys and the bottle of cheap red wine whose scent lingered strongly in his breath. The humming sound came again, this time more frequently, with gaining enthusiasm.

Reid rose from his desk towards the hallway. He hadn’t turned on the lights, or drawn the curtains in the parlour, so he felt his way along the peeling wallpapering until his hand met with the cool metal of the intercom box. He pushed the button.

‘Mr. Thurston,’ the box addressed Reid directly.

‘What…’ Reid trailed off, realizing that it was only the doorman

.
‘There’s something in your mailbox,’ the intercom responded.