The mouse in the closet can’t be the mouse in the closet because the mouse in the closet is dead, killed by a trap, a small piece of Camembert coated in pink foam in the open jaws of its adorable, vacant face. So if it isn’t the mouse in the closet making all those noises in the night, what is it? Another mouse in the closet? This would have been my own first guess if it weren’t for the laughter that accompanied the soft footsteps and pesky scraping, the incessant squeaks, which, in retrospect, sound like squeals of menacing delight. Besides, the mouse in the closet has been there for a year or more, always just the one, always seen on its own, no companion, no pink-fleshed brood.

Each morning, as I grabbed my shirt and coat, there it was, the mouse in the closet, its little brown coat and half-missing tail, a near miss from a trap several months ago (the Cheddar was not near as effective). And sure enough, when the Camembert baited the mouse in the closet to its death, its broken little body was the same, the same mouse in the closet, the only mouse in the closet, cuter than I could have ever imagined, its little brown coat and half missing tail and half-eaten morsel of artisan cheese.

Now, I wake in the night to similar, small noises. I hardly sleep, listening out for could-be rodents or might-be roaches. But it can’t be the mouse in the closet. I pinched its half-tail between thumb and finger and tossed its lifeless corpse into a bed of lavender in the garden. It can’t be another mouse in the closet --where are the droppings, the burrowing holes chewed in shirt pockets? I’ve never had roaches --not once! And I’ve never known a rodent to snicker, an insect to guffaw at my expense.

The moment my head hits the pillow, when the lavender flower heads that I place in the casing reach my nostrils, I drift off to sleep. But the moment I drift off to sleep the lavender goes rancid, cheesy even, the scent of spoiled Camembert, and then I stir, woken by phantom aromas and soft, high-pitched laughter, tittering issued from tiny lungs in the closet. Did I leave the door ajar? Were those beady eyes just now? Did they catch the moonlight through the curtains? What was that reflecting red glow from the Stygian crevice of my wardrobe?

I’ve heard of cheese dreams, but I’ve never heard of Camembert hauntings, little dead rodent revenge. In the morning, after sleepless hours caused by laughter, tiny giggles simmering in the wee hours, boiling, erupting into boisterous, cruel hysterics issued from the folds in my hung-up clothes, I rise up and feel like a corpse, a man with his soul clamped in a trap. And to make matters worse, my slumber suffers from my frantic reactions, the dozen or so times that I throw off the bed sheets to storm the closet, the frustration that follows my empty findings; no mouse in the closet, no droppings, no roaches, just flakes of dried lavender petals and a smear of mold that has ripened on a neglected crumb of cheese. In the morning --dread morning-- I limp to my coffee and lament the twenty-six dollar purchase of artisan cheese, my lack of compassion for the mouse in the closet and my selfish quest to vacate all living beings from my ample home.

I go outside among the spectral mist, the spittle of icy rain. I lower myself to the damp earth and grovel, pajamas black at the knees. I bow my head to rest upon the ceramic pot, the stubborn weeds that sprout like undesirable nose hairs inside its rim. I weep, I moan, I beg for forgiveness, for salvation, and promise offerings of Camembert, or whatever, just whisper to me in the night what you want from me and it is yours. I allow the rain to wet my back as I lay there for a while, the scent of lavender sweet and fresh and cleansing, the minute rib cage and tiny, horse-like skull of the mouse in the closet lying inches from my red-rimmed eyes. Your fun-size, saber-toothed grin is frozen in mockery, satisfaction for my plight. Or, dare I hope? Is it a sign of your forgiveness?

In the cold, in the rain, among the healing smell of lavender, of moldering bone and fur, I close my eyes and fall asleep. Such wonderful, sweet sleep.

***

James Callan is the author of the novel A Transcendental Habit (Queer Space, 2023). His fiction has appeared in Bridge Eight, BULL, Hawaii Pacific Review, Maudlin House, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. He lives on the Kāpiti Coast, Aotearoa New Zealand. Find him at jamescallanauthor.com