A Hollow of Screws

My joints clicked a dull cadence into the silence of the room. Creeping low along the baseboard, I entered the bottom tier of the dark bookcase, where stacks of forgotten manuals created a cramped canyon. Behind a leaned binder, I detected a distinct, cold chime. I stalked closer, freezing for long moments to monitor the dark air. There, resting inside an upturned plastic bottle cap, sat two blackened steel machine screws. With a sharp flick of my elongated claw, I hooked one by its threaded groove, rolling it over to feel its spiral bite against metal. A low mechanical rasp rattled in my throat. I tucked myself deeper into the hollow, watching the room from the shelter of the paper walls.