Barry Hutchison - Mr Mumbles

But that was before I heard the stories. Before I found out all about the Keller House. After that, I didn’t want to go near the place. No one did.

So, as I was saying, I usually liked lazing on my bed, but lying there playing the conversation with Mum over and over in my head, it was the most uncomfortable place in the world.

I shouldn’t have said the stuff I did, I knew that. The fact was, though, I did want to know about my dad. Mum never told me anything other than that he disappeared the day she told him she was pregnant with me.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he really didn’t want anything to do with me. He’d made no effort to get in touch my whole life, after all. Still, something kept telling me I should keep asking, and it seemed as if I was powerless to fight the urge.

Up above me a shiny plastic Santa swung gently backwards and forwards on an invisible breeze. My eyes tick-tocked left and right, following his jolly pendulum sway. On each upward swing the glow from my light glinted off his oval eyes, making them appear glistening and alive.

Then, without warning, the overhead light went dim. For a moment it flicked and flickered, sending distorted Santa shadows scurrying up the wall. The wind shook the window, rattling it in its wooden frame. The bedroom door creaked loudly as a draft slowly pushed it closed.

With a distant fzzzt the room was plunged into almost total blackness. The faint, grey December daylight that seeped into the room barely made a dent in the dark.

Suddenly, over the howling of the gales outside, I heard a sharp scraping sound. It was slow at first, almost methodical. Quickly, though, it picked up pace, until a frantic, desperate scratching ripped through the gloom.

There was a crazed urgency to the sound which froze me to my core. I lay still, unable to do anything but listen to the racket. It bounced off every wall, as if it were coming at me from every direction at once, making it almost impossible for me to pinpoint the source.

It took me several seconds, but eventually I realised where the horrible scratching was coming from: the ceiling above my bed. The blood in my veins ran as cold as ice.

There was something in the attic.

And it was trying to claw its way through.

Idon’t remember jumping off my bed but I must’ve done, because the next thing I knew I was standing in the middle of the room, listening to the scraping above me. Whatever was up there was ripping furiously at the attic floor, scratching and clawing its way through the wood.

Outside, the wind screeched and howled and hurled itself against the glass, as if it too was trying to force its way into my bedroom. The darkness seemed to close in. It wrapped around me like an icy shroud, squeezing the air from my lungs and making my heart thud faster and faster and faster.

My head went light and I felt the carpet turn to quicksand below me, sucking me down. I dropped to my knees, choking and struggling to breathe, as the world began to spin.

The sound of that scratching grew louder and louder until it was the only thing I could hear. I covered my ears, desperately trying to block it out, but still it grew louder until I was sure my head was going to explode with it.

With a faint clunk the room was filled with light, and the scratching came to an abrupt stop.

‘Nothing to worry about, just a fuse,’ I heard Mum shout. ‘You OK?’

I opened my mouth to answer, but barely a whimper came out. The carpet was rough against my cheek, and I realised I was lying curled up on the floor, my knees almost to my chest. My arms shook as I tried to push myself into a sitting position.

‘Kyle, what’s wrong?’ Mum asked, her voice urgent and panicked as she pushed open my door. My head splitting with a ferocious ache, I turned and looked up at her. She knelt by my side and stroked my face with the back of her hand, wiping away tears I hadn’t even felt fall. ‘What happened?’ she asked, softly.

‘The attic,’ I managed to hiss. ‘I heard something in the attic. Scratching.’

Mum leaned back on her heels, her eyes and mouth – just for a moment – three little circles of surprise. She gave an almost invisible shake of her head and smiled.

‘It was just your mind playing tricks on you,’ she assured me.

‘What? No it wasn’t!’ I insisted, annoyed that she’d think I’d let my imagination run away with me like that. ‘I heard something scratching up there!’

‘You know what I think?’ she smiled. ‘I think you got a scare when the lights went out and maybe had a little panic attack.’

‘I did not!’

‘Hard to breathe,’ said Mum, listing off the symptoms, ‘wobbly legs, feel like the room’s closing in on you…’

Reluctant as I was to admit it, it would help explain why I’d reacted the way I had. I’d never felt that scared before, and all because of what? A scraping noise? Idiot.

‘OK,’ I reluctantly confessed, ‘maybe it was.’ Mum flashed me a sympathetic smile and rustled my hair. ‘You seem to know a lot about them,’ I said. ‘Do you get them?’

‘Me? No,’ said Mum, shaking her head. ‘But your da—’

She stopped, biting her lip just as I had done in the kitchen. She’d almost let something slip about my dad.

‘But my dad did,’ I guessed. ‘That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? You were going to tell me my dad used to have panic attacks.’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ Mum replied. She had her defences back up and was getting to her feet. ‘I was going to say you’re darn lucky you don’t get them more often.’

She was lying, I could tell, but she was making for the door now, and more than anything I didn’t want to be left alone in this room.

‘Mum!’ I spluttered. She stopped in the doorway, hesitated, then turned back to me. I should have told her I was sorry for our argument in the kitchen, but when I opened my mouth all that came out was: ‘I really did hear something in the attic.’

Mum looked at me for a long time, her eyes scanning my face. Eventually, she shrugged and smiled a thin-lipped smile.

‘Well, then. Let’s check it out.’

*

A chill breeze rolled down through the hole in the ceiling as Mum slid back the lock and let the wooden hatch swing open. Stale, years-old air filled my nostrils, forcing me to take a step back. The smell reminded me of the day room in the home Nan stays in. Somewhere in the shadows, the hot water boiler hissed quietly, making it sound as if the loft itself was breathing.

The beam of Mum’s torch cut through the darkness of the attic, projecting a misshapen circle of light on to the bare wooden planks of the roof. Shoulder to shoulder we stood on our tiptoes, peering into the gloom.

‘See anything?’ I asked, trying to disguise the shake in my voice.

‘Nothing from here,’ Mum replied. Her voice sounded confident – a little amused, even. I felt a hot flush of embarrassment sweep up from my neck. I was acting like a scared kid, and she knew it. ‘I’ll pull the ladder down and we can have a proper look,’ she said, passing me the torch.

She reached carefully up through the hatch and felt around for the edge of the wooden steps. My breath caught at the back of my throat, as Mum suddenly let out a sharp cry of fright. As one, we staggered backwards away from the hole, until our backs were flat against the wall. Hands shaking, I directed the torch’s beam up into the attic once again, and almost screamed. Just inside the hatch a pair of piercing eyes glowed brightly in the trembling torchlight.

‘M-Mum,’ I began, not knowing where the rest of the sentence was going. I was gripping her arm tightly, too terrified to move.