Anytime he stopped cleaning, he felt the it calling. And so he cleaned until it was all he knew.

Harvey’s days were filled with scrubbing floors and obsessive dusting. The floor glared with the light from the window while windows themselves were spotless. He wiped them daily at 4:50 PM. The rest of his day fit a certain schedule, starting with dishes first thing in the morning.

On one particular day— a Monday if it helps to understand— he woke to the sound of glass breaking in the kitchen. The bat he kept next to his bed might finally come in handy, but the whole thing smelled of something evil. Out of his bedroom door, he tried his best not to make a sound going down the stairs. Turning to go down the hallway, he saw the intruder.

The man work knee ripped jeans with no shirt, but a blue jean jacket. A couple of beer cans littered the floor behind him, and now Harvey’s bleach clean kitchen smelled alcohol and body odor. The guy turned to look at him from sink. His cheeks were rosy. He ate Coco Puffs from one of Harvey’s bowls.

“You’re drunk,” said Harvey.

“What are you do’in in ma house? I’m going to call the cops!” The guy staggered a little, then dropped the bowl.

“No. I’m going to call the cops. Get lost before they show up.” He secretly hoped the guy would run. Officers might make a bigger mess.

If anything, he needed him gone. It called to Harvey’s soul, and before he could even get to the phone, he heard it in his ear. (He’s easy pickings. Common, give me some of that. Hobos are thin, but some meat is better than none.)

“Shut up! Shut up!” Harvey put his hands to his ears, but it didn’t matter. The bat hit the floor.

(Keep your guard up. Otherwise, he’ll get you!)

The guy picked up the bat. “Get out of ma house, or I’ll beat ya!” He swung the bat at Harvey. Too slow to hit him, but he damaged the drywall.

Ducking into the dining room, Harvey grabbed an antique fire poker and put the pointy end toward the hobo. “Stay back!”

“Or what?”

“This is not a squatter house!”

“And my name is Mickey Mouse!” The hobo ran through the doorway at Harvey.

Harvey held the poker firm as the guy tripped over his own feet and flew into the poker. It ran through his neck, just about dead center. The hobo fell to the ground. Blood started to pool from his neck.

The voice called to him. (No waste, now. Just clean it up. Put it in the freezer. No one can tell the difference. It sizzles like pork!)

“No! No! Damn it all!” He fell to the floor and sat in the fetal position. Perfectly still, he stopped and waited. “No. No. I just need to clean it.” After a few minutes he went to put on rubber gloves. The body made a trail as he pulled it through the house, down into the basement.

He went back upstairs and cleaned the blood off the floor with a mop and bucket. The voice called to him the whole time, and he started laughing with tears coming from his eyes.

(He’s just an old hobo. No one will miss him.)

After cleaning up the mess, he went back down with a shovel and knife. The basement had some lose boards on the floor. Underneath, there was nothing but dirt and bones.

(Waste not, want not, but you can be such a kill joy.)

Piece by piece, the man’s body disappeared under the dirt until the last piece, his arm was left. He eyed the man’s arm with a hunger that made his own skin crawl. He almost reached for it, then threw it into the pit, put down the floor boards, and went upstairs. The house wouldn’t dust itself.