by R. L. Stine
One night, his friends found Malcolm packing his suitcase. “My college examination is coming up in three months,” he explained. “I want to go somewhere far away, somewhere quiet where I can study in peace.”
His friends didn’t argue with him. They knew how serious Malcolm was about his studies.
Malcolm packed up all the books he needed. Then he took a train to a tiny town far from his home. He found a quaint inn across from the train station.
Mrs. Witham, the owner, showed him to a small closet of a room. She was a round, red-faced woman with curly, gray hair. She wore a stained white apron over her long, pleated gray dress.
“Have you come to stay for long, young mister?” she asked.
“I need to find a house,” Malcolm replied. “A quiet house where I can study without being disturbed.”
“This is a quiet town,” Mrs. Witham said. “I am sure you will be happy here.”
A short while later, Malcolm set out on his search for a place to live. At the edge of town, he discovered an old, rambling house, dark and empty and surrounded by a high brick wall. Malcolm stared at its dust-covered windows, tiny and high above the street.
Even though the sun shone brightly, the house was cloaked in shade.
It looks more like a fort than a house, Malcolm thought. I wonder why no one lives here. He felt a chill. It was as if the sunlight did not dare to touch the house.
This is the place I am looking for, Malcolm decided. No one will bother me here. I can study in complete quiet.
He found the man in charge of the property, who was very happy to rent the house to him. “I am glad to see someone live in the old house,” the man told Malcolm. “It has been empty for so long—because of the rumors.”
“Rumors?” Malcolm asked.
“Never mind,” the man said. He pushed a pen into Malcolm’s hand. “Sign here on this line.”
Malcolm paid three months’ rent. Then he returned to the inn to pick up his belongings. “I have rented the old house on the edge of town,” he told Mrs. Witham.
She let out a horrified cry. “Not the judge’s house!” Mrs. Witham turned pale.
“Who is the judge?” Malcolm asked.
“He lived there a hundred years ago,” the woman explained, trembling. “He was hated by all. He gave the harshest sentences of any judge. No one went free from his courtroom. All who came before him ended in prison forever or faced the hanging rope.”
“But what is wrong with his house?” Malcolm asked.
Mrs. Witham shuddered. “I have heard rumors, sir,” she said. “Frightening rumors. There is something about that house. If you were my boy, you wouldn’t sleep there a night. Not if I had to go there myself and pull the big alarm bell that’s on the roof!”
Malcolm laughed. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll be studying so hard, I doubt I’ll notice any mysterious something.”
Exploring the enormous old house, Malcolm trudged through a carpet of dust on the floors. The rooms were bare and dark. The tiny windows near the ceilings didn’t let in much light.
He wandered through a maze of long, twisting hallways until he came to the dining room. He gazed at the oak table in the center of the room, the broad, stone fireplace on one wall, the dark paintings that covered the other walls.
This room is much bigger than my apartment back home. It is certainly big enough for all my needs, Malcolm thought. I will make it cozy and warm, and I will live in this room.
To his surprise, he found Mrs. Witham outside. She had brought several men and boys with her. They carried chairs, a new bed, and other items he would need.
Mrs. Witham looked around the big dining room and shivered. “Perhaps, sir, since the room is big and drafty, you might put a tall wooden screen around your bed at night.”
Malcolm laughed. “And what will a screen keep out?”
“Rats and mice and beetles,” Mrs. Witham replied. “Do you think that these old walls are not home to many a rat?”
“I’m not afraid of a few rats,” Malcolm said. “I’ll be studying so hard, I won’t even hear them.”
If only he had listened to the kind woman’s warnings. . . .
Later that day, Malcolm hired an old woman named Mrs. Dempster to look after him. Then he took a long walk, studying a book as he strolled.
When he returned in the evening, he found the room swept and tidied, a fire burning in the hearth, the lamp lit. The table was spread for supper with Mrs. Dempster’s excellent food.
“This is comfort indeed,” Malcolm said, rubbing his hands in the fire’s warmth.
After eating his fill, Malcolm moved the food away and placed his books on the table. Listening to the pleasant crackle of the fire, he began to study.
Malcolm read for several hours until his eyes grew tired. He shut them for a moment but opened them quickly. “What is that sound?”
Not the crackle of the fire. But a scraping, clawing sound. As if something were scratching to get into the room.
No, wait. He heard hard thumps. More scratching. At the ceiling? Under the floor? From behind the big paintings on the walls?
He held his breath and listened.
Scratch . . . scratch . . .
Thumpthumpthump . . .
Mrs. Witham was right. The house was filled with rats!
Dozens of them? Hundreds?
Malcolm could hear them, above the ceiling and under the floor and behind the paintings on the walls! Racing and gnawing and scratching!
Malcolm swallowed hard. He took a deep breath.
Then he clapped his hands over his ears and bent over his book. “Shut them out. Shut them out,” he muttered. He tried to return to his studies.
But the scratching sounds echoed in his ears. He took his lamp and walked around the big room, exploring. He could hear the rats scampering everywhere. But they stayed out of sight.
He stopped to gaze at the old pictures that covered the walls. They were coated so thickly with dust and dirt, he couldn’t make out any details.
He stepped closer to the wall of paintings—then froze in fear. His hands began to tremble and he almost dropped the lamp.
The walls were filled with cracks and holes. And from every crack and hole, eyes stared out at him. Hundreds of rats’ eyes. Bright eyes glittering in the lamplight. Bright, shiny eyes staring at him from all around the room.
Keep calm, Malcolm told himself. Keep calm. They will not attack. They are too frightened to come out in the open.
He crossed the room and gazed at the rope of the great alarm bell on the roof. It hung down into the room on the right side of the fireplace.
Malcolm returned to the table. He forced himself to study again. For a while, the rats disturbed him with their racing and scratching. But soon he became so drawn into his book, he didn’t hear the sounds.
Late at night, he finally looked up from his reading. The fire had fallen low but still threw out a deep, red glow. The room was strangely quiet.
As Malcolm’s gaze wandered—he gasped. On the back of the tall oak chair by the fireplace stood a creature. An enormous rat. It glared at him with red, angry eyes.
It’s as big as a cat! Malcolm’s heart began to pound. What has it been feeding on to make it grow so big?
He stared back at the rat. Stared at the creature’s glowing eyes. Human eyes, he thought. Not the eyes of a rodent.
“GO!” Malcolm screamed at the top of his voice. “GO AWAY!”
The fat rodent didn’t budge.
Malcolm swung his arm hard at the creature, as if batting it away. Then he pretended to throw something at it. Again, the rat didn’t stir, but it hissed and showed its sharp, white teeth.
Malcolm jumped up from the table. He grabbed the fireplace poker and ran at the rat. The rat let out another angry hiss. Then it leaped from the chair, darted across the floor, and raced up the rope of the alarm bell. In seconds, it disappeared into the darkness above.
Breathing hard, Malcolm
stood with the poker in his hand, staring up at the dark, empty ceiling. Weariness swept over him. I must get some sleep, he thought. Plenty of time to worry about rats tomorrow. . . .
The next morning, Malcolm felt tired after his long night of studying. But a strong cup of tea helped to wake him up.
He found a quiet path between high elm trees that led out of town. He walked most of the day, reading his book along the way.
When he returned to town, he ran into Mrs. Witham, the innkeeper. “You must not overdo it, sir,” she scolded. “You are paler this morning than you should be. Tell me, how did your first night go?”
“Not bad,” Malcolm replied. “Except for the rats. You were right, Mrs. Witham. The house is infested with them. There was one wicked-looking old devil that sat on my chair by the fire. He wouldn’t go until I took a poker to him.”
“Mercy on us!” Mrs. Witham exclaimed. “An old devil, sitting on a chair by the fireside. Take care, sir. Take care.”
That night, the scampering of the rats began earlier. They scurried up and down, under and over. They squeaked and scratched and gnawed.
Malcolm’s breath caught in his throat as they poked their heads out of the chinks and cracks in the walls. Their eyes shone like tiny lamps as the firelight rose and fell.
They sprang out from the holes. They climbed onto the tops of the big paintings. Then, snapping their tails, they formed a circle around the room.
Malcolm felt chill after chill run down his back. They are getting bolder, he thought. They are getting braver.
He banged the table with his fist, trying to scare them away.
He tried to concentrate on his studies. He covered his ears with his hands as he leaned over his book.
All at once, the rat sounds stopped. Malcolm sat up, alert and surprised.
Silence. The silence of the grave, he thought.
The rats had all vanished.
What made them disappear?
He raised his eyes to the chair by the fire—and gasped. There on the high-backed chair sat the enormous rat. Once again, the rat glared at him coldly with blood-red eyes.
The others disappear when this rat arrives, Malcolm thought. Are they frightened of it?
The huge rat bared its teeth and hissed at Malcolm.
Malcolm picked up his heavy textbook and flung it at the fat, gray creature. His aim was poor. The book hit the wall and dropped to the floor. The rat didn’t stir.
With an angry cry, Malcolm raced across the room, grabbed the fireplace poker, and came at the rat, swinging the poker in front of him.
Once again, the rat uttered an angry hiss. Its red eyes burned with hatred.
Malcolm swung the heavy poker. The rat dropped heavily off the chair. It scampered up the alarm bell rope and pulled itself out of sight.
Where does it go up there? Malcolm wondered. Is there a hole in the ceiling where it escapes?
Malcolm couldn’t see that high. His kerosene lamp was too dim, and the fire had burned low.
Malcolm stared at the large paintings high on the wall. He couldn’t see them, either. I must have them cleaned, he decided. And I must burn more lamps in this room.
He pulled his watch from his trouser pocket. Nearly midnight. He threw some logs on the fire, then made a pot of tea.
While he sipped his tea, he thought about the giant rat. He shuddered. That rat is too bold, he thought. Is it challenging me by sitting up like a human in the chair? Is it planning to attack?
If I could find out where it escapes, perhaps I could set a trap for it.
Once again, the rats began to scamper above his head and beneath the floor. Malcolm searched the house until he found another lamp. He lit it and placed it on the fireplace mantel.
That’s better, he thought. I can see a little better.
He returned to the table and piled up all of the books he had brought with him. I want them handy so I can throw them at the ugly creature, he thought.
Then Malcolm lifted the rope of the alarm bell and placed the end of it on the table. He tucked the end under the burning table lamp.
“There now, my friend,” Malcolm said. “If you start to climb down the rope, the lamp will shake. I will know you are coming. And I will be ready for you.”
The rats clawed and scratched the walls. Malcolm couldn’t see them. But he could hear them chewing. Hear the thud of their feet over his head. Hear the scrape and slap of their tails over the wood.
“GO AWAY! GO AWAY!” he wailed.
But the rats ignored his shouts and continued their ugly noises.
Clamping his hands over his ears, Malcolm returned to his studies. He worked long into the night—until he realized the house had grown silent again.
A deep silence. The only sound Malcolm could hear was the beating of his heart.
And then . . . the rope jiggled.
The lamp moved.
Malcolm looked up in time to see the enormous rat drop from the rope onto the armchair. It sat there, glaring at him.
Malcolm raised a book. He took careful aim. He flung it at the rat.
The rat sprang aside. The book flew past it.
Malcolm grabbed another book, and another, and another. He threw them at the rat, but the big creature dodged each one.
Breathing hard, Malcolm grabbed one last book. He raised it high and aimed. To his surprise, the rat squeaked and whimpered and seemed afraid.
Malcolm heaved the book—and it struck the rat.
“EEEEEEE!” The rat uttered a horrifying shriek. It made a great jump for the rope and pulled itself up as fast as it could.
By the light of the new lamp, Malcolm could see where the rat had escaped. It leaped to a molding on the wall—then disappeared through a hole in one of the large, dust-covered paintings.
“The third painting from the fireplace,” Malcolm said. “I shall not forget. Tomorrow I shall find my fat friend’s home and set a trap up there. That rat shall pay me no more visits.”
Malcolm bent to pick up the book that had hit the rat—and let out a gasp. “The Bible my mother gave me! What an odd coincidence. . . .”
The next morning, Malcolm gave Mrs. Dempster special instructions. “Please find a ladder and wash those paintings—especially the third one from the fireplace. I want to see what they are.”
Malcolm studied his books all day in the shaded walk outside of town. In the afternoon, he paid a visit to Mrs. Witham at her inn. She introduced him to a man named Dr. Thornhill.
“Mrs. Witham asked me to speak to you,” the doctor said.
He was a white-haired man with a short, snowy beard. He had a round, red face and a bulging stomach under his black suit jacket. “She doesn’t like the idea of your being in that house by yourself.”
“I am not afraid of the house,” Malcolm replied. “But I am having a problem with the rats—one big creature in particular.”
He told Dr. Thornhill about his adventures with the giant rat.
Mrs. Witham sighed and shook her head.
Dr. Thornhill’s face grew grim. “The rat always disappears up the rope of the alarm bell?” he asked.
“Always,” Malcolm replied.
The doctor rubbed his beard and was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I suppose you know what the rope is?”
Malcolm shook his head no.
“It is the hanging rope that the judge used on his victims,” Dr. Thornhill said.
Malcolm thought about the doctor’s words as he walked home. He seemed like a kindly man, Malcolm thought. Why did he tell me about that rope? Was he trying to frighten me or help me?
Dr. Thornhill had given Malcolm instructions. “If you have any kind of fright tonight, ring the alarm bell. If I hear the bell, I will hurry to your rescue.”
Rescue? Malcolm thought.
Why would I need to be rescued?
Malcolm returned home to find the place bright and tidy, with a cheerful fire and the lamps glowing. The night was cold for April. A heavy wi
nd blew. Raindrops began to patter against the windows.
Malcolm ate his dinner and settled down to work. But he couldn’t concentrate.
Once again, he heard the claw and scrape of the rats, even over the sounds of the storm. A million tiny eyes peered out at him from every crack and hole in the wall.
Why are you watching me? Malcolm wondered. Are you expecting something to happen tonight?
The rope suddenly rose and fell.
Malcolm uttered a cry.
Then he realized it was caused by the storm winds blowing hard against the alarm bell on the roof.
“It is the hanging rope that the judge used on his victims.” Dr. Thornhill’s solemn words came back to Malcolm.
Malcolm felt a shiver roll down the back of his neck. Lifting the lamp, he crossed the room to the paintings on the wall. They had been dusted and washed. And now he could see them clearly.
He raised the lamp to the third painting from the fire—and felt another shiver.
It was of a judge dressed in a scarlet robe. The face was strong and evil, with a beaklike nose and cold, glowing eyes.
The eyes . . .
Malcolm stared at the judge’s face with growing horror.
The eyes . . .
“No! It cannot be!” Malcolm cried.
The eyes . . . they were the same as the rat’s eyes!
Malcolm’s heart began to thud in his chest. He suddenly felt cold all over.
He gazed hard at the painting. The judge was seated in a high-backed oak chair. The chair stood to the right of a wide stone fireplace. Behind it, a rope hung down from the ceiling.
“It is this room,” Malcolm whispered. “It is this room in the painting.”
His whole body shook. He spun around.
And a cry escaped his throat.
There, in the judge’s chair, with the rope hanging behind, sat the rat.
It stared hard at Malcolm with cold, dark eyes . . . the same eyes . . . the same eyes as the judge in the painting. . . .
The lamp fell from Malcolm’s hand. Oil spilled over the floor. His body trembling, he bent to pick up the lamp.
When he turned back to the chair, the rat was gone.
The rope swayed. Malcolm saw the big rat scurrying up the rope.
