He could hear them whisper under the floor boards, he had made sure. His Darling, he purred, fingertips so dirty he could smell them, her, on his fingers. Like tattoos are ink under skin he had rubbed his fingers raw, digging and digging and now, months later his fingertips stained with them, her. It had been five days, five days since he ate anything and the water bottles were running out. Lying with his ear to the wood he listened to her sing through them and he wept with the sudden pang of longing in his heart. Her voice were hooks in his guts. Ever since that night she had closed her eyes and he had fed her to the system of fungus growing all around the house and now they were her, and soon, soon, they were both of them.