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Creeping and Crawling
Andrew put down the book and listened, frowning. After a moment he reached across and turned down the stereo.
It was on most of the time. Since Elaine had walked out, the house seemed bigger and more silent than before. And when it wasn't silent, it was full of noises- a backwash of scrapes, scuffles and indefinable things. Intellectually, Andrew knew that it was equal parts twigs on windows (the house next door was empty and the saplings the former occupants planted alongside the dividing fence had grown up rather haphazardly), the house settling down, maybe the odd mouse, and his imagination, but that didn't always help.
Hence, for the time being, any books about things that went bump in the night- along with crime novels, riddled with murders which seemed almost invariably to place in the victims own homes- had been firmly consigned to the bottom drawer, and his literary diet consisted resolutely of space operas, sword and sorcery fantasies and action adventures replete with car chases and machine gun battles. Evil masterminds trying to take over the world weren't a reassuring concept (though he'd survived the Thatcher years in more or less one piece, which helped), but it wasn't the kind of frightening that damn near gave you heart failure in the middle of the night.
But this time, he had heard something and it wasn't a mouse.
There it was again. But what was it? He turned the volume down further.
The noise again- faint, indistinct, wafting up the stairs like a cold draught.
This time Andrew switched the stereo off.
There was a long, long silence, in which nothing seemed to stir. Andrew had almost convinced himself it was all his imagination after all, and was just reaching over to turn the stereo back on, when-
He nearly leapt a foot in the air when he heard that sound again. But what was it?
Rats, a trapped bird, twigs in the wind again- a whole battery of possibilities, all of which failed to satisfy. The sound was very indistinct, and sounded no more like a crazed axe-murderer trying to pick the lock on the front door than anything else. But that was the only image that hung around behind his eyes.
He sat for a small eternity, paralyzed, listening. And every so often, that sound came again, just as he was about to dismiss it. At last, unable to take any more, he got out of his chair.
Andrew looked round the bedroom for a weapon. Not having arranged the furniture, decor, or general disposition of chattels with a view to re-enacting the climax of Straw Dogs, he wasn't exactly spoilt for choice.
Eventually he settled on the rather dubious combination of the bottle of Lambs Navy Rum Elaine had bought for his last birthday, which heed taken to stowing beside the bed- the odd nip helped him to sleep- as a combined bludgeon and in the event of breakage, sharp implement, and a small folding pocket-knife from his bedside drawer, which he unfolded and tucked up the sleeve of his dressing-gown.
It took several deep breaths to nerve himself to throw open the bedroom door- the image of the mad axeman capering of on the landing, weapon raised aloft for a swift beheading, wouldn't go away. When he did, he looked down the dark-shrouded stairs glumly, wishing he'd had the light switch fixed. Normally there was one on the landing, one in the hall, but the upstairs one wasn't working, which meant he'd have to go down the stairs in the dark.
Of course, if he really thought someone was trying to break in he should call 999.
Well done, Einstein. Now guess which floor the phone's on?
The worst part was remembering Elaine trying on several occasions to persuade him to install an extension upstairs, which he'd refused. He'd opposed getting the workmen in ever since receiving the bill for converting their old pantry into a downstairs toilet three years before. If something needed doing, he vowed, he'd do it himself. That Andrew had neither aptitude nor inclination for DIY didn't help. If Elaine was here, she would have been I-told-you-so-ing like there was no tomorrow.
On the other hand, if Elaine was here he wouldn't be having a nervous breakdown over a few noises in the night.
And, he added to himself, venturing down the stairs, you'll feel a proper jerk when you find it's just a bloody cat.
****
But it wasn't a cat, bloody or otherwise. It wasn't a mad axeman either, which was something of a relief. But while cat and murderer had been imaginary, the noises were distinctly real. Unfortunately that was the only distinct thing about them.
Andrew switched on all the lights in the house and tried to trace the noise. At last, he was led to the door of the downstairs toilet.
He switched on the light. The noise- whatever the hell it was- seemed to be coming from under the carpet tiles on the floor between the toilet and sink.
He crouched down, leaning forward to listen. That, of course, was when the noise stopped.
Andrew left all the lights on, retired grumpily to bed, and hardly slept at all that night.
*
Elaine rang him the following evening. It was a masterpiece of bad timing. He'd gone on to have a thoroughly hellish day at the office, eventually tearing several highly-coloured strips off a co-worker and being reprimanded by his manager. On top of that, the heavens had opened the second he'd stepped off the bus, and he'd got home drenched to the skin.
How are you? she said.
Missing you, he said, truthfully, even though it came out sounding more gruff than he'd intended.
Miss you too, she said quietly.
Well, come back then, and we won't miss each other any more.
Andrew- She took a deep breath, and he stifled a groan, knowing that another of the droning platitudes he'd come to hate was on its way, You know I can't. We'd just have another row. We've got to talk about this.
It's easier face to face.
Andrew, don't-
Come home, Elaine.
She didn't answer.
Come home.
No.
Well, piss off, then, you bloody cow! he shouted, slamming down the phone and stomping through the storm to the Indian takeaway, stubbornly refusing, as he went, to admit that the wetness on his face was anything but rain.
*
That night, he heard the noises again. They were louder.
Once again, he made himself climb down the stairs. It was easier this time- he knew where the sounds were coming from (if not what was making them), so he was plagued by fewer images of assailants wielding gardening implements than before. There were still some, though.
The noises continued as he pried up the carpet tiles in the ex-pantry. In the old days, if he remembered rightly...
He did. A square trap door was cut out of the white and sunflower-yellow linoleum, a rusty iron ring set in it for lifting it out. There was no cellar, but there was a foundation space.
Still the noises, fuzzy and indistinct.
Andrew swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and grasped the ring.
Then snatched his hand back, as though scalded; another, different noise had come from below.
A sharp scrape.
Like a nail dragged over the trapdoor's underside.
Andrew replaced the carpet tiles, turned out the light, shut the door, locked it firmly and went back upstairs. For the second night running, all the house lights- other than that one B stayed on.
*
Next day, he rang in sick. He half-convinced himself it was because he had the beginnings of a cold, on the evidence of having sneezed twice that morning. He convinced himself almost completely that yesterday had been so shitty that a day off was all that stood between him running amok with a stapling gun. But he knew the real reason. Even if it was nearly noon before he admitted it to the extent of doing anything about it.
By day, the house was truly silent. The weather was still grey and wet. Every so often flurries of rain pattered lightly against the windows, but other than that there was no sound but those he made.
He turned on the light and took the tiles up again, gripped the iron ring and pulled up the trapdoor.
A musty smell rose from the foundation space. It was dark. He looked down into the square of light beneath the trap and saw a damp earthen floor. Brickwork- walls and support pillars. That was all.
Nothing for it, then. Andrew fetched a torch from the garage, and a boiler suit. He fiddled with the torch till it put out a greasy yellow glow, then swung his legs through the trap and lowered himself into the dark.
****
He looked up at the ceiling with its creamy woodchip wallpaper and the rim of the toilet bowl. Not an angle he usually saw them from. Rather like a fish looking up through the surface of its bowl. Andrew didn't find the image appealing. He flicked his torch around.
Not much of interest, not at first. Not until pale things gleamed in the torchlight. Andrew stepped forward to inspect them. They were bones. He guessed they belonged to mice and rats, though a few looked like those of birds.
A sound! Andrew jumped and spun about, the torchlight gadding over the brickwork. What was that? It had sounded like-
The torch beam skidded over the wall, and then plunged away into a long dark tunnel.
Andrew stood there, stock-still, blinking in astonishment. There wasn't supposed to be a tunnel there. It had been three years since his last visit, but he was reasonably sure he'd have noticed something like this.
Nervously, he went closer and shone the beam a little further down the tunnel. It was wide but low, too much so for a full-grown man to crawl through. The tunnel walls were ribbed, and glistened slimily. He shone the torch down it again.
A sound reverberated inside the tunnel. Andrew was never sure, even later, what it was- the echo distorted it, and in any case he was a little busy blundering backwards towards the trap door, having just seen a big, distorted shadow surging forward into the glow of the torch. He hadn't caught a clear glimpse, just an impression of bulk, speed and general unfriendliness that was more than enough.
The boiler suit saved him. As he scrambled out of the trapdoor, something snagged his leg, yanking hard. Andrew let out the highest, shrillest scream of his life, pulled his legs up and out and rolled wildly away. His leg was bleeding, but the cuts were shallow; the sturdy material of the boiler suit had taken the worst punishment, hanging in shreds.
Faint noises came up through the open trapdoor. One way or the other, Andrew knew he had to go back to it- whether to look or just slam it down again. He crawled over, fumbling for the trap, and with a deep breath, peered over the edge.
He fully expected to see a hairy-faced something with blazing red eyes and razor sharp teeth leering up before tearing him limb from limb, but there was nothing. Just the square of light printed on the earth floor. Except that trembling on its boundary, just visible, was the edge of a shadow, cast by something halted at the edge of the light. Something that feared the light, or at least disliked it.
Slowly, carefully, and quietly, Andrew replaced the trap and the carpet tiles, and wondered if he should pile some furniture on top as well.
****
Explanations? This was the mad, deformed bastard son of the previous owner. The house was built on one of the seven gateways to hell. A local toxic waste dump had created a giant killer mole.
What it boiled down to was that there was a monster living in his basement- alright, his foundation space, but basement sounded less silly. Not that you could avoid sounding silly in this context. Who could he tell? Who'd believe him? With his luck, the creature would vanish, fill in its tunnel, leaving him only with a reputation as a weirdo who saw monsters under the toilet.
But it couldn't go on. How was he supposed to live alone in a house with that under the stairs? For now it was afraid of the light, but for how long? Someone had to be told.
Proof. He needed proof.
But how? Nothing on earth would send him into the cellar (foundation space, basement, he'd call it what he bloody well liked) again. Therefore he had to lure it out into plain view.
Andrew ventured out later, visiting first the local butchers and then Dixons. He returned with a Polaroid camera and several pounds of raw steak.
One by one, he threw the pieces of meat down into the square of light, and crouched there with the Polaroid in both hands. There was a faint noise from below- indistinct as always - but nothing moved. Whatever it was didn't come forward. He raised the camera and pressed the shutter, but the flash provoked only a shrill noise and a scuffling noise of flight, and when the picture printed out he could only see a faint blur at the edge of the frame.
He remembered the rat and mouse bones he'd discovered. They'd been crunched up and spat out. It was a meat-eater alright, had to be, as if the state it had left his boiler suit in left any room for doubt. So why didn't it eat the steak?
****
Elaine rang again that night. He'd known she would, and had paced the house uncomfortably. He hated waiting at her beck and call, but he had no idea where she was now, and the phone number, as a quick dialing of 1471 had confirmed, was ex-directory. Which meant he was forced to hang on, his one grudging admission of affection for her.
His head felt like it was splitting. He loved her and he hated her because she was spinning out his torment, though of course he couldn't explain to her just why and how she was doing that...
Once again, he pleaded vainly with her to come home, and knew there was another reason for the urgency in his voice. He couldn't stop thinking about what he shared his house with. Perhaps with Elaine back, he could forget about it, fill the house with light and sound again, not have to think about what was beneath the floorboards. Because he was frightened by the knowledge that sooner or later he'd lift up the trap again, look again, try and take its picture. If she didn't come back to enable him to forget, he'd have to know. Have to see it in all its gory glory. Even if it killed him. No matter what.
****
The next day was Saturday, so there was no need to call in sick again. He thought long and hard about it, and came to a decision. Not particularly pleasant, but...
The pet shop was well stocked with rabbits and guinea pigs. He bought half a dozen of each. It wasn't local- he'd deliberately chosen one in Sale, which was a less than reputable neighbourhood anyway, whose proprietor looked as though he'd have been more at home comparing at a strip club. So if he did plan on feeding them to his pit bulls to get them in the mood for the evening dogfight, who cared?
Out came the trusty camera again, and up came the trap. The rodents twitched their noses in their boxes scattered the entrance to the toilet like someone=s strange idea of a Christmas present.
Light fell onto the earth floor. Perhaps that would be enough to disturb it from its rest. He flashed the torch about. Indistinct noise, and something stirred at the edge of the light.
Alright. Andrew took a deep breath, grabbed a rabbit and a guinea pig by the scruffs of their necks, and threw them into the space, though not before the guinea pig bit him hard. He yelped and sucked his hand. They hit the earthen floor, and immediately scattered, fleeing into the dark. The shadow moved, flickering away- the Polaroid flashed uselessly, and a second later the rabbit screamed. A moment later, so did the guinea pig.
Just under a minute later, there were spitting sounds and bits of them bounced back into the light. Andrew, his appetite for a bacon sandwich quelled, swallowed hard and replaced the trap.
Still no pictures, but it was his own fault. The creature obviously preferred its food live. But live and able to run around wasn't much help. He went into the garage again and hunted down an old clothesline made from plastic flex with a wire core.
****
He still couldn't do it. The bloody thing moved too fast. The camera only caught a blur, even with half a dozen rodents pinioned and squeaking on the cellar floor. The thing moved with a fast swipe, snatching one or two at a time so fast that if he so much as blinked he found the cellar's rabbit and guinea pig population further diminished.
When they were all gone- and he'd burned up most of his film and still had nothing to show for it other than a few blurs that could have been anything- he tried to escape it all by going to watch the television, only to find that the Saturday matinee was Watership Down. The video for Bright Eyes was the stuff of purest nightmare now. He switched it off halfway through the image of the wounded rabbit tumbling end over end in slow motion.
Slow motion.
He stopped and mulled it over. Perhaps that was it. A moving image...
But still, it wouldn't be fast enough. The damn thing moved like lightning, sweeping up rabbits and guinea pigs without even slowing down. Slowing down, yes slowing it down was the key. A larger animal as bait- a cow, perhaps?
Yes, a cow...
A right bloody cow...
*
I'm sorry, darling, he said. No, you were right. I've been a bloody idiot. Always getting wound up over nothing, and taking it out on you. And I don't listen. I never listen; you're right about that too. I want to change. I love you, Elaine, I really do.
And I love you too, Andrew. But... what's brought all this on?
I've been alone here for weeks now. Seems like forever. The house seems so quiet and empty with you gone. All you can do is think. It can drive you up the pole, frankly. And I've been thinking. And I've just come to realize how much you mean to me. And that you're right. I need to listen to you, and change things so we can be happy together again.
Down the phone, Elaine's sigh of relief was like a gust of autumn wind. Thank god for that.
So... will you?
AI don't know, Andrew...@
Honestly. No strings. You don't have to stay over if you don't want to. Just some food, and we'll talk. Just get started. I'd really much rather it was face to face.
She still wasn't sure, but in the end he managed to talk her round. Eight o'clock, then?
Alright.
I'll look forward to it.
So will I, she sighed, happily.
When he'd hung up, he began preparing the basics of the meal. Shame it was mostly going to waste, but he had to keep up appearances. Wouldn't do to tip her too early.
He inspected the kitchen and nodded with satisfaction. The table set for two, the candle in a Chianti bottle holder, a souvenir of their honeymoon in Siena. And the bottle of rum of course. That wouldn't make her suspicious, not till it was too late.
The difficult bit would be just landing the blow hard enough, so it didn't kill, but stunned deeply enough to do what he had to do. She had to be alive when she went in the hole, and tied.
And he'd need time to set up the camcorder and tripod he'd bought from Dixons. It was costing him an arm and a leg, but it was a small price to pay for piece of mind.
And who knew how much the videotapes might be worth? To certain interested parties, though he doubted it was something he could just flog to the Natural History Museum.
But most importantly, he'd finally get to see what it was that had been lurking in his cellar. At least he hoped so- he'd have to be very careful nothing went wrong tonight. Aside from the obvious disappointment, it would be so much more difficult to find the right bait if he had to do this again...
Simon Bestwick
Email: Simon Bestwick
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