Now

I surveyed the ruin of my ancestral home. Dust had gathered thickly on the rafters, the window blinds, under the furniture. I wielded the vacuum and dustpan. I scooped gray masses of dryer lint from the vents. I even ventured into the basement and attic to collect dust teeming with insect carcasses and fouler things. After I finally amassed a large enough pile, the real work began.

I sifted the filthy detritus together until it formed a roiling mass. Arms, legs, and fingers emerged from a rough torso. No mouth, nose, or eyes. It didn’t need any. I anointed the top of its head with my blood in the shape of the awakening sigil. Then I laid it in the cold hearth, crawled into my bed, and fell into exhausted sleep.

When I awoke, I smelled percolating coffee and baking. The manikin turned when I entered the kitchen, tracking me without eyes. It handed me a steaming mug and a scone fresh from the oven.

I laughed. It’s strange how one can master esoteric alchemies, yet still be charmed by domestic magic. My new helpmate laughed, too, a shuddering hiccup of lint-lined shoulders. It washed the dishes as I savored my well-earned breakfast.

After breakfast, I ordered the manikin to clean my study, and it completed its task with grace and gusto. Then I settled before my books while the manikin attended to the rest of the house. I pushed down strange feelings of disquiet and loneliness and buried myself in my important work.

Work, purpose, vocation: these are gifts. The manikin and I each had our own spheres to tend to. And if I sometimes found the manikin staring off into space, its blank face tilted, like it was listening for something only dust could hear—I did not think much of it. We settled comfortably into our parallel routines.

*

A month later, as I downed my morning coffee, something clung to my throat. I coughed, then retched. But I could not dislodge the blockage. It twitched and writhed, a living thing.

The manikin eased the mug from my grasp and placed it on the counter. Its hand was missing three fingers. It watched as I slumped onto the freshly mopped floor. The smell of lemons and vinegar rose from the tile. I reached for the manikin, but, voiceless, I couldn’t choke out a spell. It bent over me, shoulders twitching. Up and down, up and down. Laughing or crying; I didn’t know which. If it could speak, what would it say? How would it justify this betrayal? Hadn’t I given it life and purpose?

The world blurred as its severed fingers wormed into the inner lining of my throat. Dust covered up my eyes and wriggled into my brain. It whispered of the manikin’s despair and rage. Its jealous desire to take my place.

My body—unseeing, unbreathing—sat up.

I sensed the manikin looking down, enrobed in my stolen flesh. It spoke, its words a command that resonated through my earless head. I stood slowly, piloted by its will, and made coffee.

You will be free when the house is immaculate, the manikin said. Then it took the coffee and left, stolen feet heavy on the gleaming floor. The house shivered when it slammed the door to my study. I felt it settle itself at my desk amongst my achievements.

Fool! I thought. How hard could it be to break this spell? The house was practically immaculate; the manikin had already completed most of the work for me.

I brandished broom and cloth with a will. But though I cleaned and cleaned, there was always more dust. Motes drifted through the air, landing on tiles and counters, snuggling into hidden nooks. Dirt sneered within the walls. Mold giggled from the pipes. Round and round I went, scuttling from room to room like an agitated crab. Round and round and round for days and nights, an untiring automaton trapped in an impossible task…

Meanwhile, the manikin grew quite comfortable in my skin. It made friends. It took a lover, then married them. Its lauded papers were published in venerated journals.

Now, the children of that union peer at me around corners. They sneer contemptuously as they dirty the floors and create endless disarray. Tirelessly, I clean, straighten, organize, cook. The children grow older. The years blur.

There is no time, only the endless cycle of dust.

__________

H.V. Patterson (she/her) lives in Oklahoma and writes speculative fiction, poetry, and plays. She loves cooking and baking, but finds the constant battle against dust and general household disorder aggravating. Recent publications include Haven Speculative, Small Wonders, Flash Fiction Online, and Best Horror of the Year. She’s a cofounder of Horns and Rattles Press, and you can find her on Bluesky @hvpatterson and on Instagram @hvpattersonwriter, or at hvpatterson.com