We got her out after work; the other guys had their try, but in the end, there was no contest. After a few drinks, she was putty in my hand.
Got her back to mine, showed her my pad, got her on the sofa. And we’re going at it, full-throttle, when I start to hear it again. In my ear; I can’t get it out of my head. Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. Nagging at me, distracting me.
I say to her “Can you hear that?” She says, “What?” I say “The dripping, the fucking dripping”. She still can’t hear it. I tell her to shut up and listen, but she still can’t hear it. I tell her, I tell her about how it doesn’t come from any of the taps, but it’s always there. I show her the taps in the kitchen and my bathroom. But she still can’t hear it.
I ask her, “Are you fucking deaf?” Then she starts getting all mouthy with me, calling me crazy. I try to say sorry, calm her down, but she insists on leaving.
Fuck her, you know?
I was still fuming when I went to bed. I can still hear the dripping, but I’m ignoring it. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I’m just going to ignore it.
I get to sleep but I’m tossing and turning. Drifting in and out; waking up, going back to sleep.
I wake sometime early morning and it’s light outside and I’m lying on top of the sheets. I’m looking up at the ceiling and I can see this spot, this dark spot; about the size of a tennis ball. I’m staring at it and it starts to get bigger. And bigger and bigger. It grows to the size of a football, a beachball, and it keeps going. Within seconds the spot’s as big as the bed and the ceiling’s starting to bulge and the surface starts to ripple. Then the whole patch explodes, bursts – and this wall of water comes down, raining, pouring down on me.
I wake up again, suddenly; big jolt. I’ve been dreaming, but I’m soaked with sweat. It’s four-thirty am on a Saturday, but I had to get up. Couldn’t sleep any more. Had to get out of that room, place is doing my head in.
I felt like shit. Rough as. But later, when I’m feeling better, I go back in there. I dragged a chair in and I felt the ceiling and it was bone dry. I thought maybe, just maybe, the water was getting trapped behind the skylight and getting into the ceiling somehow. But I couldn’t see anything.
Wasn’t myself at all that day. Couldn’t chill. Spent a few hours on the PlayStation, watched the football with a few beers, but I couldn’t get that image out of my head. The image of the ceiling splitting and bursting and the water raining down. Because the more I thought about it, the more I replayed it, the more I thought there was someone there. That when the water broke, someone had been up there. That there was like this figure, that they fell through the ceiling and brought the water down with them.
I couldn’t see them; it was just this dark shape of a person. A shadow of a body; I didn’t see their face or what they looked like. It was just a dream, but I could not get it out of my head.
I had to get out of there, I was driving myself crazy. I did my shopping, had a walk about town, but still I could not get that image out of my mind. I decided to go to the cinema; nothing wrong with going by yourself once in a while. Saw that western with Jeff Bridges and Matt Damon, they’re protecting some girl. It was ok, but as soon as it was over, my mind was back on my dream.
When I got home, I couldn’t sleep in my own room. It didn’t feel right any more. After an hour or two of trying, I switched to the other room. Threw my pillows and duvet on the bare mattress and tried to sleep. I did manage it for a little while.
I started dreaming I was out in my car, my Jag. First day out. Ripping up the countryside. Wind running through my hair. But it starts to rain; water’s running down the windscreen. I put the windows up. The wipers are going crazy, but they can’t get it off. It comes running down so thick I can’t see anything. The whole view of the road had gone; there was just this wall of water.
Then I open my eyes, and I sit up. For a second I forgot I was sleeping in the other bedroom. The bathroom is right opposite the bed in this bedroom, and I was looking right at the door. I could hear them, the taps. But they were not dripping, they were pouring.
The shower, the bath, the sink – it sounded like everything was running. I could hear the rush of the water.
What the fuck was going on? I didn’t put them on. Was someone in there? The light was on; I could see light from the gap under the door.
The bathroom must be flooding; water was coming from under the door and running down on the carpet. The carpet was soaked with it. The damp patch was creeping towards me. Slowly coming down towards the bed.
I got up and started walking slowly. My flat was like, flooding, but I was too freaked-the-hell-out to go quick. I walked slowly to the door, my feet squelching on the soaked carpet. I put my hand on the door handle and turned it slowly.
The bathroom was full of steam. All the hot water taps were on and the shower too. The bath was overflowing, the sink as well.
As the steam started to clear I turned off the sink tap. The mirror was all fogged up. I wiped my hand across it; it cleared the view for just a second before it steamed right back up again.
I went to the bath tub, pushing the shower curtain aside. I leant down and reached for the hot tap and turned it off. But when I turned it I saw, out the corner of my eye, the bathtub wasn’t empty. There was someone in the bath, hiding beneath the water. I barely saw them for a second: I only got to turn my head just slightly – but they were dressed, fully clothed.
The surface of the water broke. This arm, dripping wet, reached out and grabbed my hair. It dug its fingers in and pulled me down. My feet slipped on the floor. I was going down. I was going down and my head was going to hit the side of the bathtub – boom!
And then I woke up – it was another dream.
I was up, bolt upright in my bed, gasping for air. Just like they do in movies; full on nightmare. I was breathing so heavy; my heart beating hard.
I was facing the bathroom. The door was half open, light off. All just a dream.
I tried to calm down. Relax. But then, just as my heart starts to go and beat like normal, I hear something. I get up and walk back to the bathroom, slowly.
The carpet was dry now. So was the bathroom floor. But the hot water tap was running in the sink. The water running straight down the drain.
Slept the rest of the night on the sofa. But didn’t sleep much. I thought I must’ve left the tap on. The rest was just a dream and dreams can’t hurt you. Even if… even if there was this pain, this throbbing pain, on the side of my head. I had to be imagining it because I hadn’t hit my head, not in reality.
I couldn’t face staying there all day again. The place was messing with my head. But just as I was leaving. Just as I was about to go out, I noticed there was this dark patch on the wall. The wallpaper was messed up and out of shape. It was coming off the wall. Just close to the ceiling, near the bedroom I’d slept in that last night.
I knew it. I knew something was up with that place. The fucking plumber. There was water leaking in the walls. I was right, right all along.
I went to the office. I couldn’t take being at home. I tried to take my mind off the place, but it wasn’t working. It started to rain and I could see the water pouring down the glass windows. And out of the corners of my eyes, I kept thinking I could see something. Someone standing there, watching me. I tried to focus on my targets, getting my quarterly figures. But even going to the toilet, the sound of the water dripping in the urinals; it gave me the shivers. Made me sick in my stomach.
The thing in the bathtub. The person. The man. I didn’t see him, I didn’t know him. But I did know him. I mean, when I was dreaming, I knew that person. When he went at me, when he grabbed me… I was frightened because I knew who he was. But now I didn’t know who the fuck he was. None of this shit was making sense to me.
But it was a dream. Dreams are weird. I was angry, furious. I called up the plumber, like 20 times. Yelled at him on his answer phone. Then I tried to call round other plumbers, but be
cause it was Sunday no one would take the call. I emailed the estate agents, the fuckers who sold the place to me. Threatened to sue their asses for breach of contract. That place was falling to bits. They were gonna pay to get it fixed, not me.
It got late and I decided I was going to go back. I got some pizza, some beers, and headed home. As I got back I had a go at the doorman; he recommended those pricks to come and have a look at my place. I dragged him up to my flat to show him the damage. I showed it to him, but he kept coming out with this shit, said it wasn’t damp.
I asked him: “What the fuck is wrong with you! It’s coming off the wall because of the water.” He said he couldn’t feel any water. He reckoned it had been torn off. I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. Said he was going to complain about me. About me! The nerve! I said I’d like to see him fucking try!
Went to sleep on the sofa. I was asleep for, I dunno, a few hours, before I started dreaming. I was out driving again. I was tearing up the lanes again, in the Jag. But I was tense this time, nervous. I was trying to get somewhere in a hurry. And when it started to rain, I didn’t slow down, I started to speed. I was trying to beat it. Beat the rain by going faster.
But I couldn’t; the water came down so hard the wipers did nothing. It poured down over the windscreen so thick I couldn’t see a thing. Just water. There was so much water it started to come through the windscreen. Water washed down over the dashboard, over the steering wheel, onto the seats, onto my knees…
Something leapt at the windscreen. A man, arms out, smashed against the glass and the bonnet.
I woke up with another shock. I was in bed – in bed! I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, but now I was in bed!
It was the same as last night. I was in the second bedroom; I was lying on my side and I could hear the taps in the bathroom and the shower. They were running again, only louder this time. I sat up and saw this time the door was open, the light was off. But the water was still overflowing from the bathtub. I could see it trickling out the door on to the carpet again.
This time I wasn’t going to go creeping in. This time I was going to go and face down this thing, whatever it was. I swung my legs out from under the duvet – but too quick. I smacked the ball of my ankle on the drawers next to the bed. As soon as I stood up I sat back down again, it hurt like fuck.
I felt the pain and I suddenly realised, had this moment of realisation: I was not dreaming this time. You know how you always know, deep-down, when you’re dreaming? Well I must have thought it, when I saw the bathroom, but I knew I wasn’t now, because that fucking hurt. I’d hurt myself, really fucking hurt myself.
I was awake. 100% fucking awake.
The light came on in the bathroom. I turned my head. The room was empty; there was no one in there.
And then it came up from the bath. This dripping wet arm came from under the water. It gripped the side of the tub, pulling up this body. He was fully dressed, dressed in a big brown duffle coat, the furry hood pulled down low over his head.
He stood up, water pouring from his body, pouring from his hood, sleeves and pockets. He wore jeans, soaked dark with water. He raised one foot out of the bath and slammed it down on the soaking wet floor. It was a black Doc Martin boot; water squeezed from it like a sponge as he put it down.
Jesus Christ, it was him! It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be him; what the fuck was he doing here? What the fuck was he doing here!
He pulled his other leg out of the bath and stepped out. He stood still on the spot, water pouring off him onto the floor.
Then after a moment his drooping head started to lift. The hood, dripping wet with water, started to lift up, slowly revealing his face.
I nearly shat myself. I jumped across my bed and went straight into the hall. I grabbed my wallet and phone and fucking legged it. I went right out of there; I went down to the basement to my Jag in nothing but my shirt and pants and decided to get as far away from there as fast as possible.
What the fuck? It couldn’t be him. What the fuck was he doing there? I mean, he was fine. He was moving when I left him. He shouldn’t have been there. What was he fucking doing walking out there in the middle of nowhere? It was pissing it down for fuck’s sake. How was I supposed to see him?
I didn’t know where I was going. I was just driving. It wasn’t even five in the morning. The streets were clear. I hit the M25 still not knowing where I was heading.
After I was driving for like, over an hour, I thought I’d go out to my parents’ place. They lived out near Oxford. I just needed to get away somewhere, clear my head of all this shit.
I had to get some clothes first. I walked into one of those big Tescos. The security guard tried to stop me; I put a twenty in his hand and told him to leave me the fuck alone.
Got some cheap jeans and a jumper and a pasty for something to eat. I got off the motorway just as the traffic was starting to come in. They had this decent place out in the country. Three bedrooms, garden. Hadn’t been out there for months, that’s why I forgot: they were going on holiday weren’t they? Completely forgot.
They didn’t want me there. Couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Here I am, going out of my mind, and they just wanted me out the way! I pretended everything was cool. I just was passing by. Thought I’d drop in on them. I couldn’t tell them what was going down could I? They’d think I was fucking mental.
But they just wanted me out of their hair while they were checking they’d got everything. Lock this window, close that door. I pretended I was on my way to a conference in Manchester. That way I’d have to be on my way soon. I didn’t know what the fuck I was going to do. He was out to get me. He wanted revenge. It was his fault, his own fucking fault. But he wanted revenge on me.
Yeah, I thought that’s the way to approach this. To get angry. Come out fighting. I watched my dad; he told me when I was a kid that if you wanted anything you had to fight for it. He’d done alright for himself. He’d come from nothing; youngest of five. First in his family to go to college. Running his business by the time he was 25. And he’d had his fair share of shit. Been screwed by the government, the taxman; faced down his rivals. But he’d come out fighting, every time. I respected my father; I respected him proper.
I wasn’t going to take this. I didn’t know what the fuck this was. Whether he was ghost or a zombie or whatever the fuck. I was not taking this lying down.
I went out to the garden shed. I rummaged around and I pulled out my old cricket bat. I was going to end this! I got into my car; I was going to face this thing down. I’d come too far. This was my life; I made it, no one was going to take it from me. I was going to face this thing down; I was gonna go down fighting!
I left my parents’ place driving fast. Fuck the speed limit – this could not wait.
It started to rain; of course it fucking did. It was pouring down, and I was sat in my car, just like in the dream. But the rain didn’t come down so hard. I stayed on course.
I got back and marched up the stairs, bat in hand, ready to take on anything. I arrived at my front door, and reached into my pocket for the keys. I saw the floor – it was wet. I hadn’t even realised it; it was wet all the way to the elevator.
I just touched the door and it came open; I must not have locked it.
I looked in and the flat was flooded. Water was dripping down the walls, dripping from the ceiling; there was an inch of water on the floor; it looked like it was raining indoors.
I walked in, bat in hand; he was here somewhere. And there he was, out on the balcony, enjoying the fucking view. Water was still dripping off every inch of him, just like before. His hood still pulled down low.
I decided now was the time. I went straight out onto the balcony. Pulled open the door and out into the pouring rain and said: “Is this the best you can fucking do, huh? This the best you can fucking do!”
He turned around slowly.
“I’m not scared. I’m still standing here. I’m not scared. I’m not scared
of you or any of this shit. So bring it on. Bring it the fuck on!”
He didn’t do anything. He just stood there, just fucking stood there. I picked up my bat and I went for him. I swung it hard right against his shoulder, and then back against his stomach.
He barely moved; it was like hitting a mattress; it practically fucking bounced off him.
I took a step back, lifted it up high and with everything I got I went straight for his head. I screamed; I swung right at his head and he took it, his neck bent right and he went back slightly, like all I’d done was give him a slap. But that was it; he’d still barely moved.
“What are you?” I shouted, throwing the bat down. “What the fuck are you?”
He twisted his head back. His left arm came up slow-like and grabbed the end of his hood and pulled it right back over his head.
I looked at his face: Jesus fucking Christ, it was barely hanging on his skull; like a melted rubber mask – it looked like you could just tear it off the bone. Water poured from his eye sockets, his mouth, the hole where his nose should’ve been. He had ginger hair, but there were huge chunks of it missing.
He looked at me; skin drooping over empty eye sockets pouring water. He looked right at me; stared at me. I was froze to the spot, I couldn’t move; I almost pissed myself.
He opened his mouth slowly – then he screamed. He shrieked; I never heard anything like it. I almost had to grab my ears it hurt so bad.
He jumped at me. His hands clamped around my throat. I fell on the soaking wet concrete. His hands were like claws; hardly any flesh on them. I felt the ends of his fingers pierce the skin on the back on my neck. The water, pouring from every feature on his face, landing on my face, dripping into my mouth, on my eyes.
He kept screaming, spitting water at me. He was right on top of me, I could barely move. I felt my throat being crushed; I managed to scream. I rolled to my right and pushed him off. He slid over to the patio window. I rolled onto my front and managed just to get to my feet. But he swiped at me with his claw; caught the back of my leg, cutting my muscle.
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