The Rats in the Walls (Inktober, Tuesday, October 6)

For Inktober, Tuesday, October 6, 2020. Prompt word: "rodent." Tuckerization: Wesley Lowe 

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, there are no other similar characteristics implied. 

The Rats in the Walls 

by Alan Loewen 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Furiously, Wes stabbed the numbers on his cell phone and waited as the number rang through. 

“Maintenance,” a weary voice responded. 

“Mr. Trattoria? Wesley Lowe, Room 1523 …” 

“Is this about the rats in the walls again?” 

“Yes. I can’t sleep at night. You have to do something about this. They run around the walls and keep me up all night.” 

“Mr. Lowe, I’m sorry, but we have fourteen floors of apartments. Nobody else has complained. If we have rats in the walls, you’re still the only resident that hears them.” 

“I don’t care. I want you to come and knock a hole in my wall and see for yourself.” 

“I can’t do that, Mr. Lowe. I’ll tell you what. I’ll have Stanley come up and look around again.” 

“That moron can’t find his own nose …” Wesley said. 

“Mr. Lowe, I’m not going to listen to you insult my partner.” And with that, the maintenance supervisor hung up. 

With a growl, Wes slipped his cell phone back into his pocket. Outside the window, the city of Philadelphia sprawled to the west. 

The Robert Morris had been a famous hotel when it was built in the late 1800s. Still, with the 21st century, tourists wanted more modern amenities. So in 2002, it was converted into efficiency apartments. 

Still, the new owners had not invested too much money in the project. The hot water heaters in the second level basement frequently broke down, and taking the elevators was always a risk. 

And, Wes thought, there were always the rats in the walls. 

True, Wes had never seen a rat in his apartment, but at night he tossed and turned as a mad mob of rodents ran behind the walls, and it was insane that nobody else could hear them. For the last five nights, Wes hardly got a wink of sleep. 

That night was only more of the same. Occasionally, Wes would kneel on his bed and pound on the wall, but that only agitated the vermin more. Putting his pillow over his head, he finally drifted off to sleep. 

That morning, sunlight coming through the haze of Philadelphian skies wakened him. He was sleeping on his back and his mind, slowly coming into full consciousness, was aware of a small weight on his chest. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring into the beady, black eyes of a large rat. 

With a scream, Wes tore the blankets off and threw them on the floor. Bounding out of bed, Wes saw the rat run under his bed. 

Wes grabbed the footboard and pulled his bed away from the wall with a strength born of fury. 

There, through the trim at the base of the apartment wall, Wes saw the tail of the rat disappear into a large, ragged hole. 

Wes dropped to his knees and peered into the hole. Plaster had fallen off, but what lay underneath was not plasterboard and insulation, but wood paneling. 

Getting a flashlight, Wes shone the light into the hall and saw the far wall was about four feet away. 

Wes had heard the rumors the Robert Morris played a huge role during Prohibition. Tales were told that said that bolt holes and secret passages had been built into the walls. His curiosity caused Wes to forget the rats as he carefully picked away at the plaster. 

Thirty minutes later, Wes had cleared enough of the plaster away to reveal a door, one that swung inward. Carefully, aware of the rats that had bothered him for the last six nights, Wes examined the narrow hallway within his wall. He was not worried about the damage he had done. He could easily replaster the wall and repaint it courtesy of skills learned in his first job in construction right after high school. But his curiosity was aflame, and the wanderlust of exploring something new and odd drove him to solve the mystery. 

The hallway ended where the wall of his bathroom stood to his left, but to his right, the hallway ended at a descending ladder. Wes examined the metal rungs fastened securely to the wall. There was no sign of rust, and the rungs withstood Wes’ tugging. Carefully placing his foot on a rung, carefully, he tested the strength of the metal. Slowly, he went down the latter. It ended at another hallway that paralleled the one above it. 

It was then Wes realized how remarkably clean the hallways were. There was no rat litter anywhere. Aside from a musty smell of enclosed air, these hallways had been unused and unoccupied for man or rodent for an unknown number of years. 

At the end of the second hallway, Wes found a small room with a simple wooden table, chair, and another ladder leading downwards. Old magazines and newspapers lay on the tabletop. Disintegrating at his touch, Wes could see the publication dates were all from the mid-1920s, the height of Prohibition. 

With a smile, Wes, testing the rungs, made his way down the second ladder. 

Carefully, Wes made his way through the hallways and ladders, keeping count until he knew he was level with the hotel's first basement. There, he found the hidden speakeasy with a small hallway that ended at a dead end, most likely an entrance for the public long since bricked up when Prohibition came to a close. 

The barroom itself held no treasures. There were a few empty unmarked bottles long since dry of bootleg whiskey. Dusty tables and chairs stood the same as they had been abandoned decades ago. 

With a sigh, Wes made his way back to the ladder that led upward when suddenly the floor gave way. 

* 

With a groan, Wes came too. Though his back ached, Wes felt nothing broken. Opening his eyes, he saw his flashlight in the rubble, leaning in a way to illuminate the hole in the floor ten feet above him where he had fallen. He had to be on the level of the second basement of the Robert Morris. This room probably served as a basement for the bar above him where they stored illegal liquor. 

Wes grabbed the flashlight, and then he noticed the small reflective eyes all around him. 

There were rats, hundreds if not thousands of them, all staring at him, strangely not moving or making a sound. Merely sitting and looking at him. 

His breath coming in short gasps, Wes carefully stood and spun about. He saw a ladder that would most certainly lead to a trapdoor to the speakeasy above him. Still, his path was blocked with innumerable rats. 

* 

Hours later, the phone to the maintenance supervisor rang, and Mr. Trattoria cursed to himself. Caller ID said it was the lunatic in 1523. 

Reluctantly, he picked up the phone. “Maintenance,” he said. 

“Mr. Trattoria, this is Wesley Lowe in 1523. You don’t need to bother your assistant. I found the source of my problem, and I solved it.” 

Mr. Trattoria gave a sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear, Mr. Lowe. I will let my assistant know. Glad you found the problem yourself. What was it?” 

“Well, I’d rather not say as it’s rather silly, but it’s all taken care of. So sorry to bother you. All it needed was a little bit on know-how.” 

Wes punched the disconnect on his cell and sat back in his overstuffed chair. 

Around him and over him, thousands of rats filled his apartment. 

He lifted his hand where a rat balanced itself. Wes scratched it under its chin with his free hand, and the rodent chittered in delight.

“Yes,” he said aloud. “A little bit of know-how and understanding. Shall we do a little bit of exploring of that underground world of yours now? There are just so many more mysteries to uncover!” 

The rat jumped off Wes’s hand, and Wes stood and followed as the swarm poured through the secret door to flow into the lands below.