by Lumby, Mark
Copyright © Mark Lumby 2017
The right of Mark Lumby to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior consent of the author.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
But the places are real.
Dedicated to my wife, Sonia, who is a treasure to me, her family and her friends. Thank you for being there, for being you, and for all your support. And to our five children, Chloe, Jack, Samuel, Aaron and Isabelle aka ‘the Beast’.
You are amazing.
I love you all.
59 Cornlands Road.
I ripped away the duct tape from around the loft hatch, leaving behind a black sticky residue. Maggie footed the step ladder and had a nervous hand clutching at my calf. I looked down on her smiling apprehensively. “Hear goes nothing,” I said, and lifted the hatch just enough to see the darkness inside. Warm stale air invaded our bedroom. It was like stepping off a plane when you go on holiday. The air was sticky, and carried with it, it smelled of something rotten. My stomach churned and I felt something rise from the base of my belly and through my chest. It was enough for me to clear my throat as though I had something stuck. I looked at Maggie.
“What is that smell?” she asked, expressing a frown of disgust.
“I think we found the problem.”
“Ew! Peter! Mice?”
“I don’t know—could be something bigger. A pigeon might have found a way through the roof and not been able to get back out.”
“Oh—that poor thing.”
I stepped down the ladder. I put the back of my hand against my mouth, cleared my throat again. The sick feeling wasn’t giving up. “That pigeon—if that’s what it is—has probably put a nice little hole in our roof.”
“But it might have suffered.”
“Our bank account will be suffering if the little sod has damaged the roof. We only moved in three days ago, remember. And we still need to decorate. Besides,” I looked at the hatch, “if it’s a dead pigeon, then why do we still hear scratching noises on our bedroom ceiling?”
“You think there’s more?”
“I really don’t know, Maggie. And more to the point, I don’t know how I’m going to get up through the hatch. I mean, have you seen the size of that hole? Samuel would struggle fitting through that, never mind me.”
“So—what are you going to do about it.” And the look she gave me, I knew that this problem was all on me. It was the look reminding me that I was the man of the house and it was my duty to solve any problem that evolved. “We can’t just leave it until they all die; imagine the smell?”
I did imagine it. Not to mention the stains they would make on our bedroom ceiling when their bodies were decomposing. “I guess I’ll take another look. Shine the flash light up there, see if I can see anything.”
“If they are dead,” she said thoughtfully, “how are you going to get them out? You can’t fit.”
I didn’t answer her. I reached for the torch I had left on the bed, and placed a foot on the step ladder. I glared at the hatch, switching on the torch.
I held my breath as I lifted the cover and slid it aside onto the wooden beams. Dust and grit rained onto my head, falling down my t-shirt. I shivered at the thought of spiders. I ruffled my hair and spat out the dust that had gone into my mouth. I caught a dose of that smell again. The warmth hit my face, and I held my breath for a second time for as long as my body would allow. But choking inside by the smell I had already inhaled, I was forced to cough. Sick burned the back of my throat and tasted like vinegar, but I swallowed it back. I held my balance on the ladders for a few seconds, giving time to regain composure. Maggie said nothing. But I was reminded by a rub of my leg that she was still there.
I shone the light into the loft, slicing through the dark like a sharp knife and cutting through dust particles that floated like mist. I stretched my neck as far as it would reach, but at the same time cautious of something striking me in the face.
Maggie said, “What if they’re alive?”
“Please, Maggie,” I told her.
“But they could be, whatever it is.”
I stopped as my shoulders hit the hatch, and I glanced down at Maggie. “Do you want to do this?”
“It could be rats.”
I looked away from her, back into darkness and poured light over the roof beams and as far to the floor as I could see. Reluctant to go any further, I looked down on Maggie again. “Rats?” Really? I hate rats.
“Mum!” Samuel called from downstairs. “There’s two men at the front door. Shall I open it?”
“You go babes. It’ll be the furniture.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, its fine. Send Samuel up though. These ladders aren’t the best.”
“Coming Samuel!” she screamed.
I heard Maggie tell Samuel to help dad. And eventually after protesting, he emerged in the bedroom. He said, “Yeah, dad?”
“Hold the ladders would you. They’re a bit shaky,” I instructed him. “Was it the furniture guys?”
“Urgh? I guess—I dunno.”
“Okay. Well you just hold onto the ladder.”
“Is this going to take long?”
“Why? You doing anything?” I looked down at him.
Samuel shrugged, but gave no answer.
“You holding this thing?” I said, as I noticed how small he was. Small enough to fit through the hatch. “You think you can fit through here?”
“Where? There? I guess, but I’m not…no way!”
“Sure you could. What if I double your pocket money for a month.”
Samuel thought about the offer and replied, “Two months. Raise it for two months.” His nose wrinkled. “What’s that smell?”
“Two months? And if I agree you’ll go up there?”
“Sure. What’s that smell?”
“I think it’s just damp,” I lied.
“Damp? Smells like something died up there. What are you doing, anyway?”
“Your mother and I heard a scratching sound,” I began stepping down the ladder. “I’ll foot it for you. It’ll be fine.” I handed him the torch.
“Scratching? Well, what’s doing the scratching?”
I patted down my clothes and glared into the loft, wiping my brow. “Not entirely sure,” trying not to sound sheepish. I tried to guide him up the ladder, but he stood firm. His face looked serious and a shade paler. “Your mum thinks it could be rats—but I don’t think it is,” I quickly put in. Samuel stepped away and handed back the torch. “Three months. Three months at double pocket money. And you can stay up until ten.”
He wasn’t even thinking about it now. Samuel had made up his mind and shoved the torched in my stomach. “You said nothing about rats, dad.” He stared into the dark abyss of the loft, squinting through the thick black air with his mouth gaping. His shoulders hung low as if all the energy had been drained from him. Then his jaw snapped shut with a clack of his teeth and I saw him swallow.
When we heard the sudden tapping, he shot me a wide glance, eyes bulging like peeled boiled eggs.
“Rats, dad? That doesn’t sound like rats to me.” And he was right. That tapping sound sure as hell wasn’t rats. I knew that and so did Samuel. There could be something loose in the roof, hitting against the chimney or a wooden beam. But what, we didn’t know, couldn’t imagine. But it seemed to be drummed out with intelligence like fingers rattling against a surface, not by four legged vermin, and certainly not by a piece of felt carelessly flapping about in some unkno
wn draft like bats wings.
As we both stared into the hatch, carried on the humid damp air that seeped through the hole, heavy and dull and claustrophobic, was the giggling of a young child. It sounded like the laughter was removed of the dark void, that it didn’t actually come from the room at all, but from beyond, from behind the walls; it was unnatural and should not have been there, could not have been there. But it was.
This small child.
This little girl.
Then it stopped. But the air was still thick; that never changed. And within the silence that was left, like some residue given from the girl, we could feel the terror rage from the darkness. And it emanated from both Samuel and I. He chose to hide behind me, clutching at my waist, like a scared little boy squeezing his teddy bear from under the bed sheets. I looked down on him, noticed his hands tremble, his head trembling, too. I had never seen him like this before. He was petrified. He was pale and clammy, eyes so wide I could see a ring of red vessels around the whites.
“You know, dad,” a small sound as he struggled saying the words. He gulped, wetting his lips to speak more, but struggled. “That’s not a rat.” He kept on staring at the loft, expecting something, although nothing happened but the suffocating black air that came from the dark space like thick smoke, unseen, but very much felt. This thing was in the room around us, a quiet and heavy feeling like being under water. Like we were drowning.
There was an absence from behind, and when I turned, Samuel had left the room. I expected he would run to his mum…tell her. If he did, I was in deep trouble. Because of the fact I had tried to bribe my own son to do what I should have done. This part did fill me with nervous tension, dread and regret. I watched the hatch, and the more I stared at the black square, the more it seemed to draw me in, become absorbed, like it was feeding off me…or was I feeding off it? It was hard to tell, but it didn’t feel good. It felt very wrong. Eventually, I heard Maggie scream my name from downstairs. It didn’t sound too good. I guess Samuel had told her. But I was glad of the distraction because her voice pulled me away from what the loft seemed to be doing.
It was like it was speaking to me, not in words, but in some other sensation.
I quickly reached up from the second step and pulled over the hatch, and as soon as it was sealed the feeling lifted. The room was empty of whatever had been here and the heaviness had vanished, too. I took away the ladder and stored them outside the bedroom.
I spoke with Maggie about the little girl; I was accused of filling Samuels head full of nonsense. When I mentioned that it was real and that it did come from the loft, she just screwed her face up and reached out to grab her mobile phone from the table. She was scrolling through her phone when she finally spoke, wittering about rats and mice and other infestations, giving me an awkward look every now and then, until eventually she shoved her phone into my chest paired with a piercing stare of sheer anger. She fluttered a weak smile, but I knew it was out of sarcasm. “Ring them…now, Peter!” Those words were like needles stabbing all over my body. Maggie shook her head pathetically, could neither talk nor look at me anymore as she spun on her heels, leaving the kitchen through the back door and into the garden. She abruptly pulled out a chair from the patio, sat on the hard plastic, and crossly folded her arms.
I gave Samuel a look of a lost child who didn’t know where to turn. I was going to say something to lighten the mood like, ‘her time of the month’ or ‘must be a woman thing’, but I reckon it would’ve been lost on Samuel. Instead, I shrugged at him, because I didn’t know what else to do. “You did hear that, didn’t you?” I asked him. “I mean, we did hear that girl, didn’t we?”
He seemed nervous to answer, ruffled the hair on the back of his head. “I—I heard something.”
Looking through the window and at Maggie, I said, “You heard a girl…she was giggling. I didn’t imagine that.” Then I looked at him. “You heard that, right?”
He gave a deep sigh. “I told mum what happened.” His voice was low. I think he thought he had betrayed me somehow. I put my hand on his shoulder and he looked up. “She said that I could’ve just imagined the whole thing?” He sounded like he was asking for my approval. “She said that you had told too many stories and I only think I heard something.”
“Think!” I expressed unbelievably. “Samuel…we did hear it, pal.” I lowered myself to his height. “You heard the girl, I heard her with you…together! This was all real.”
“But mum said I just imagined it.”
I shook his shoulder a little. “Mum wasn’t there. She didn’t hear her. What do you really think? Mum aside, what do you think we heard if it wasn’t real. The wind? Something outside? It could’ve been either, but what it boils down to, Samuel, whatever sound it was, we both thought it was the same thing. You can’t make that up.”
“I thought that, too,” Samuel told me. He sounded relieved like a weight lifted off his shoulders.
I smiled. “So, you did hear her?”
He nodded, keeping a watch on the door, aware that mum could interrupt at any moment. Samuel took the phone from my chest. “What shall we tell mum?”
“For now, let’s not say anything more about the girl.” I said. “As far as your mum knows, let’s just decide that this is something else.”
He gave a nod, but I don’t think he was really listening, and looked at the display on the phone. He passed it over to me, saying, “Rats?”
I looked at the display, and sighed.
Collins Pest Control
Samuel said, “I don’t think it’s rats, dad.”
“I know. But which would you prefer?” I wish I could ring the number and they would remove whatever was in the loft. But I think it’s the wrong type of pest.
* * *
Maggie and I had gone to bed without exchanging words. She rolled over, her back against me. I tried to kiss her, but I was shrugged away. All she said was, “You don’t have to get up to him when the nightmares start.” I could tell she was sulking. “Filling his head full of nonsense.” She had a good point. Although this wasn’t nonsense. This was real. Both Samuel and I would agree to that.
I slept on my back; I always did when we slept at the other house. But this time was different, because this was the third night in our new house, and to the right of our bed was the closed loft hatch. All I could think about was the voice of the little girl. Eventually though, I drifted to a peaceful slumber, without a single thought of anything.
I woke up to heavy rain knocking at the window. But the bedroom was in silence, as was the rest of the house. It was still night time; the room was dark and no light shined between the edges of the curtains: no light except street lighting. But the silence was eerie, adding to the fact that Maggie was sat up as though she had bolted upright from a disturbed sleep. How long she had been like that, I didn’t know. She was clutching at the bed sheets, pulling them up towards her bosom. I touched her elbow; her skin was cold. “Maggie?” I whispered, through a course sleepy voice. “I’m sorry,” thinking this was the reason why she was so quiet. Why was she so cold? “Maggie, is everything okay?” I sat up. “Do you feel unwell?” I shook her elbow a little. This made her sway. I thought she would keel over, but she didn’t. She turned her head to look in my direction, but not at me, just at the wall, at the unfaded square of wallpaper where a picture once hung.
She rubbed her eyes with her fist, closed them drowsily. “Peter? The rats, they keep me awake.” She indicated the ceiling. “They’re awake, I can hear them.” She paused, because she yawned, then, “Are they coming tomorrow…Collins?”
I hadn’t called them. I didn’t reveal that to her, though. “They’re fully booked. I called another company,” I lied, “but they’re the same. I’ll try again in the morning.”
“Mmm? That’s good, darling,” she was calm, almost falling back to sleep. She reached out and touch my thigh. “Could you take a look then? In the loft…?”
“Sure, babes. I’ll do it
first thing.”
“Good,” she laid back down and turned to face me, although her eyes were closed. “Because I don’t like it when she cries…”
I frowned and raised my head a little off the pillow. “What did you say?” I whispered. “Babes? Maggie?” But Maggie was fast asleep.
* * *
When I woke up, my head was splitting, a dull ache behind my eyes like something was inside my head pulling my eyeballs inwards. I rolled over and threw a lazy arm Maggie’s way, but the side where she laid was empty. She was already up. I then heard her in the kitchen, clunking the plates away into the cupboards.
The rain had stopped, which was a blessing because this damn headache was unreal. But as soon as I sat up, the pain was completely drained as though the headache was all part of some dream. I lowered my head back down, stared at the ceiling; I noticed the white wooden hatch was covered with my dirty fingertips, and immediately I was reminded of what Maggie wanted me to do. The loft was silent, for the moment, anyhow. I had never called Collins Pet Control. I was always taught to deal with my own problems before I seek help. I turned over and sighed, closed my eyes and wished the problem away.
Scratching! Those little shits are walking over my ceiling!
I opened my eyes. But just as abrupt as my headaches has ceased, the noise in the loft stopped, too. I swung my legs out of bed. I watched the loft hatch like I was expecting something to happen…a bang…a tap…a little girls playful giggle…nothing did happen. But the silence, as eerie as it felt, a thickening of the air, seemed the noisiest of all. Impenetrable. I kept looking at the hatch, and even though closed, it seemed to want me. It was calling me, whatever was inside, at the other side of the wood. I stood up and reached out to try and touch the painted wooden square. I couldn’t reach, so I stepped onto the bed. I extended my reach, one hand leaning against the wall, and trailed a finger over the smooth cold surface.
And then nothing. It was like I had been released from whatever I was fixed on.
