Spine

by Steven Jenkins

  “Did you see any?”

  Dad puts in the last screw and then gets up. “Nope. Nothing at all. Not even a spider. If there is a rat in there, then he’s doing a pretty good job of hiding.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Henry,” he replies, brushing off the dust from his hair. “Just want you to have a good night’s sleep. Can’t have you walking ‘round all day like a zombie.”

  I smile. “No problem. Thanks again.”

  Dad returns a smile and ruffles my hair as he leaves the bedroom, heading down the staircase.

  Glancing at the panel, I can’t help but wonder what kind of rat could have made such a loud banging noise.

  A bloody big one, that’s what!

  4

  The moment my head touches the pillow, I get a strange sense that something is watching me through the tiny hole above my bookshelf. I know I’m being silly, that it’s probably just paranoia—but it still sucks. Why can’t I just go to sleep? What the hell’s wrong with me? The rat problem is sorted, the panel is back on, and I haven’t heard a single noise.

  Another hour passes and I’m still wide awake. Maybe I’m overtired (whatever that means). Surely by now I should’ve passed out. Perhaps I’m just waiting to hear the sound of a rat trap, snapping down on some poor rat’s head, spilling out its brains all over the crawl space. Yeah, that’s probably it.

  I just need to block it all out, think of something else. Glimpsing at the wooden panel, I shake my head. You’re going nowhere my friend. Your days of keeping me up are long gone. Hope you enjoy your last night inside my wall.

  Closing my eyes, I think about school, and how much I hate Simon Price. He’s not even a bully, just really annoying. Always correcting people’s grammar, always grassing on every little thing to Mr Moore. Very childish. God knows how someone hasn’t beaten him up yet. And then there’s his best friend, Tim. What a prick! I think he’s probably the reason no one touches Simon. He towers over everyone, even some of the teachers. Dad reckons he’s peaked too soon. He says he’ll stay that height forever, even when he’s eighteen. But I doubt it. He’s just saying that to make me feel better about my height (or lack of it). And what about Mrs Richards and that irritating voice of hers, always calling out our names with that—

  I look up and see a dark, gaping hole in the wall.

  The wooden panel is missing.

  I can’t breathe as I grasp the quilt tightly, pulling it right up to my face. I want to shout, to scream down to Dad, to Mum, to anyone, but I can’t; my voice is frozen.

  Eyes fixed on the hole in the wall, I watch as something creeps out onto the carpet. Is it a rat? No, it looks like a huge spider, the size of a tarantula, crawling out, one leg at a time.

  Oh my God, those aren’t legs!

  Those are fingers!

  I watch in horror as a thin wrist follows the bony hand out of the blackness. Then another hand, and a wrist, followed by a skinny arm, with its elbow protruding like an arrowhead. Its razor-sharp fingernails claw at my carpet, dragging its childlike, withered body out of the wall.

  Now I see its head; its bald, tiny head, with the tops of its ears pointy like a wild cat. What the hell is it? By the time its naked, skeleton-like legs slither out, into my bedroom, I can feel the room start to spin. I think I’m gonna faint. Can’t stomach the terror. It’s too much.

  It sees me, with big round eyes, too big to be human. They glow bright yellow, almost fluorescent, as it nears the foot of my bed. Now my limbs are frozen too. Can’t seem to be able to do anything. I’m paralysed. Its head slowly comes into view as it climbs onto the bed. The mattress hardly sinks at all with the creature’s weight. I’m desperate to close my eyes, to throw the quilt over my head, to pretend that this is all in my mind, but I can’t.

  It climbs on to me slowly, hissing something through his jagged, oozing teeth.

  “Heeeenryyyyyyy.”

  And then I pass out…

  I wake suddenly, body shooting up in bed. The morning sun is beating down through the window above me, blinding me for a moment. But then I frantically scan the room for the creature, the sides of the bed, the floor.

  The wooden panel! It’s back on!

  Leaping out of bed, I race over to it; all four screws are still screwed in. I try to yank off the panel, but it’s fixed on tight. Impossible! How did it get back on?

  And how the hell did it come off in the first place?

  A dream? Must have been. But if felt so real. I could feel it on me, whispering my name. I could smell its breath.

  This thing was no rat. It was something else entirely. Had to be a nightmare, must be from tiredness. They say you’re likely to hallucinate if you haven’t had enough sleep. And I definitely haven’t had my eight hours.

  All day long I’ve felt like crap, sore throat, headache. I thought it was just lack of sleep, but it’s not. The school nurse sent me home early, said I had a temperature. Most likely flu. Luckily Mum was home, sent me up to bed. I planned on telling her that I didn’t want to sleep in the attic tonight; that I’d sleep in Rachel’s room. But how could I? What possible reason could I give? Tell her that I had a nightmare about a creature that lives in my wall? She’d laugh in my bloody face. So would Dad. And she’d only give me a lecture about passing my flu-germs onto Rachel, and how difficult and expensive it was to convert the attic.

  By six o’clock, the puking started. Dad was home by then; brought me up a glass of orange juice and a pan to throw up in. I wanted Mum to call the doctor, but she said there’s no point. Said I just needed a little shut-eye. That’s all.

  But right now, all I want to do is curl up and die. Can’t even sleep. My eyelids are so heavy. But what else is there to do but lie here, with aching bones, and wait for sleep to come. At least I don’t have to go to school tomorrow. Can’t see me being much better by morning. Not according to Dad. Could be a bug. Or food poisoning. I was fine before lunch. Maybe it was that pizza I had. The cheese tasted a little funny. Can you get food poisoning from mozzarella?

  Another hour or so goes by and still no sign of sleep. Can’t go on like this. Tiredness probably caused this illness, and now it’s keeping me up. Where’s the logic in that? Maybe I’m just focusing too much on it. Maybe I should just block out my headache, throw out the swirls of vomit bubbling up in my stomach, toss away my sore muscles, my aching joints, and think of something nice instead. Mind over matter and all that. What’s in the cinema this weekend? I pick up my computer tablet from the bedside cabinet and log on to ‘Cinema Listings’. The new Michael Bay actioner’s in. Maybe I could ask some of the boys if they fancy seeing it. The trailer looked rubbish, but I’m sure it’ll be easy watching. Or we could check out that new bowling alley in town. It’s meant to be good. I bet Phil would be up for that, too. He loves a bit of—

  I hear a faint snapping sound coming from inside the wall.

  What the hell was that?

  And another.

  Then another.

  The rat trap!

  I put the tablet back on the bedside cabinet, and sit up in bed, clutching my quilt tightly; heart thrashing. I listen out for the other three traps. But silence. Should I go down and tell Dad? I’m sure he’ll be over the moon when he finds out. The last thing he wants in his house are disease-ridden rats.

  Just as I’m about to climb out of bed, I hear another snap. And another. Then the last one. All six. That’s a lot of traps. Does that mean there were six rats all killed? Or just one tough rodent?

  The room falls dead silent. Not a scratch or squeak. Nothing. Stepping onto the carpet with my bare feet, I suddenly feel lightheaded. I sit back down on the mattress, head buried in my palms, and wait for the feeling to pass. But it doesn’t. It only worsens, forcing me to lie down on the bed, head against the pillow, eyes shut. My mind is a twisting mess of colours, making me feel sick, dizzy. It’ll pass. I know it will. I’m not gonna throw up. It’s just my head. Not my stomach. Think happy though
ts. Think happy thoughts…

  I hear a faint ‘pop’.

  Then another.

  I open my eyes. Where the hell is it coming from?

  I hear two more.

  The four screws! From the wooden panel!

  Oh shit!

  The panel falls flat onto the carpet revealing the hole in the wall. I scream out to Dad, to Mum, but my throat is too swollen for the sound to travel. Staring at the black hole, body shaking in terror, I wait to see the fingers again, and the bony arms, the giant glowing eyes.

  But I don’t.

  Maybe a minute or two pass before I’m able to look away, at the bedroom door, at my exit. Just as I start to move, a wave of vomit leaves my stomach, gushing out of my mouth like a tidal wave. The mushy bile sprays all over the bed, onto the carpet, and across the wall. I try to get up out of bed, to call Mum, to get to the bathroom, but can’t, my limbs have stopped working. I can’t even lift my head off the pillow. Screaming at the top of my voice becomes a faint sound of rushing water, and my eyes start to close. I fight to keep them open but it’s useless.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Am I dreaming again? Is this all just the effects of the food poisoning? Did the screws of the panel really just pop out on their own?

  Have I gone mad?

  I hear something scurrying around on the floor, by the bed. Like an animal. Not a rat. It sounds heavy, more like a cat. But bigger than a cat.

  Then ice-cold hands take hold of both ankles; nails clawing into my skin. Suddenly, I can feel my motionless body being slowly dragged off the bed. The pain as my head hits the floor courses down my skull, through to my neck. The jolt forces my eyes open. A horrid hissing sound fills my ears, almost drowning out the noise of my fingernails, digging into the carpet. I’m now beyond terror, beyond any rational thought. All I want is to wake up from this nightmare, to shake it off, to put it down to a fever.

  But then I see its face, glaring down at me. And those eyes, those giant glowing eyes, piercing with hunger, with excitement. And teeth like shards of glass sticking out of black gums.

  “Heeeeeenryyyyyyyyy,” the creature whispers, his grin stretching wider than any human’s.

  I scream in horror, but only in my head.

  And then I see nothing, only darkness as my eyes close...

  Just a dream. Nothing more. There are no monsters in real life. There’s nothing living inside the crawl space. It’s just the illness, the fever, playing tricks with my mind. Nothing more. Just a delusion.

  I force my eyelids open to pull myself out of the darkness. Panic hits me hard when all I see is more darkness. What the hell is going on? Where’s the light from my window? From the moon? The street lamps?

  Where the hell am I?

  I feel about in the dark; thank God I can move my limbs again. All I feel is a dusty wooden floor, and brickwork in front of me. I try to stand but smack my head on something hard; thick dust showers over me. Feels like a wooden beam. Just up ahead I see a tiny ray of light shooting through the wall. Crawling on my hands and knees, I make my way towards it. Just as I reach it I hear a voice. A boy’s voice. And Mum. Head against the wall, I peek through the tiny hole. I see my bedroom. And Mum. She’s standing over my bed.

  Oh my God! I’m inside the crawl space!

  “Mum!” I cry through the hole. “Help me! I’m inside the wall!”

  She doesn’t respond.

  I bang on the wall as hard as I can. Still nothing.

  “Help me, Mum!”

  No response.

  There’s someone in my bed. Mum leans down to kiss them on the cheek.

  I can’t breathe as I watch her leave the attic. “Don’t go!” I scream, beating my fists on the wall until the pain is unbearable. “Don’t leave me!”

  A boy sits up on my bed. And I see he’s wearing my blue pyjamas.

  Eyes locked in my direction, he reaches for the light switch on the wall. My stomach churns as a giant grin spreads across a face that belongs to me.

  I scream out loud, pounding the wall again with stinging fists.

  And then the light disappears.

  I scratch with razor-sharp fingernails at the walls, at the wooden panel, but no one hears me.

  No one ever hears.

  In the darkness of the crawl space...

  All Eyes On Me

  I hate these places, Mark thought as he sat down in Doctor Caswell’s waiting room. Why are there always only women’s gossip magazines? What the hell are we suppose to read?

  The magnolia painted walls and grey carpet reminded him of school—inside the dreaded headmaster’s office. The very thought of it sent a cold, disturbing shudder down his back.

  Mark was alone in the clinic waiting room, except for the chubby female receptionist, who was sitting behind a sliding window, staring coldly at him; her judging eyes cutting through the glass. What the hell is she looking at?

  Doctor’s receptionists annoyed him. The very idea of someone, other than his doctor, knowing the gory details of his messed up life, filled him with a quiet rage.

  And as Doctor Caswell was a psychiatrist—this only made matters a hundred times worse.

  Mark looked up at the clock on the wall; it read 3:28 P.M. He sighed impatiently when he realised he had been waiting for almost an hour. “Excuse me,” he called out to the receptionist.

  “Yes, Mr Lewis,” she replied. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I’ve been here for almost an hour. Do you know how long he’s going to be?”

  “I’m sure he won’t be much longer, Mr Lewis. He’ll call you when he’s ready.”

  Mark let out another groan and then slouched in his seat.

  Just then, a loud clicking sound turned his attention to a door. Doctor Caswell was standing in a doorway, dressed in a dark blue suit, with a welcoming smile spread across his thin, suntanned face. “Hello, Mark,” he said. “Sorry to keep you. I’m ready for you now.”

  Mark gave an awkward nod and then followed him into the room.

  Inside, Doctor Caswell ushered him to a chair, positioned in front of a large desk. Scattered across its smooth surface was a small open laptop, a white mug, a thick notepad, and various pieces of paper. Mark sat down.

  Despite the chair’s soft and comfortable leather, Mark felt anything but relaxed.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me today,” Doctor Caswell said as he took a seat behind the desk. “How’ve you been keeping? Any progress?”

  Mark shook his head. “No, not really. Still jobless. Still feel like shit. Still getting the insomnia, the nausea. And now the paranoia’s getting worse.”

  “Oh, right. And what’s been making you paranoid? Anything in particular?”

  Glancing nervously at the closed door, Mark leant forward and whispered: “Everyone keeps staring at me.”

  “And who’s everyone, Mark?”

  He glanced at the door again. “Like I said—everyone.”

  Doctor Caswell picked up his notepad from the desk, pulled out a pen from his shirt pocket, and then scribbled something down. “Well, the fact that you referred to it as paranoia is a really good sign.

  “Really?” Mark asked, cynicism in his tone

  “Absolutely, Mark. It means that you accept that it’s all in your mind.”

  Mark sat back in his chair and sighed loudly. “That’s just it: I’m not sure it is paranoia. Maybe at first I did, but lately…”

  “You have to keep telling yourself that it’s all in your head; that no one’s staring at you; that you’re a perfectly normal human being.”

  Mark rubbed his tired, aching eyes with his palms. “I’d love to believe that, I really would—but everywhere I look I see people watching me. And not just people. Even animals are different ‘round me; barking and growling at me. My own cat’s run away from me for Christ’s sake. Can you believe that? I’ve had the little fur-ball for five years. Five bloody years.”

  Doctor Caswell gave a slight grin. “Cats run away a
ll the time. Dogs bark and growl all the time. People stare all the time. It’s in our nature to be inquisitive; that’s how we learn; that’s even how we’ve evolved to where we are now. It’s nothing for anyone to worry about. It’s just life. That’s all.”

  “I’m not talking about one or two drunken idiots in a bar,” he leant in close again, “I’m talking about every single man, woman, and child I’ve come across in the last three weeks. Everybody.”

  Doctor Caswell fell silent. Then he jotted something else down on his notepad.

  “Like the other week,” Mark began, “when I was just walking into town, heading for the bank, every single person I passed turned to glare at me. It was horrible. And not the feeling a movie star gets walking into a nightclub, or a supermodel just strolling down the street. This was more like the Elephant Man—with his fly unzipped.”

  Doctor Caswell let out a small chuckle. “So what did you do then?”

  “What do you think I did? I ran straight home, that’s ‘what’!”

  “I see,” Doctor Caswell said, leaning back in his chair; a worried frown across his brow. “And how did that make you feel?”

  “How do you think it made me feel? Paranoid. Like some kind of a freak. Like I had two bloody heads.”

  “And did you eventually get to the bank?”

  Mark shook his head. “No. I just couldn’t face seeing all those…people.”

  Doctor Caswell wrote in his notepad again. “And what about other times; did you run home then?”

  “Yeah. Damn right I did. Every time. Haven’t left the flat in days. In fact, it was a huge stretch to even come here today. I was in two minds to cancel on you.”

  Doctor Caswell gave a reassuring smile. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t. It sounds like we’ve still got a lot of issues to work through.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small mirror with a black handle. “Take this, Mark.”