VIII - Charlie
Charlie
peered up at the darkness over the edge of his duvet. He had changed quickly, in the dark and in fear, forgetting to
tidy up his toys. Now he could see them
lying there, or the vague outlines of them, and his heroic squad of bears
suddenly seemed more sinister.
The
night was silent. He couldn't even hear
the TV shows his father usual watched late into the night, the ones he had seen
through the crack in the living room door, the ones with all the women. He was quite used to the sounds of those
programs. As long as he could hear them
he knew he was safe, his father wouldn't bother him, but tonight it was too quiet. He didn't know where his father might be and
his allies, the bears, didn't seem so friendly any more.
Actually,
the night was totally silent. He had
thought he heard a woman scream after the lights went out, but he had convinced
himself that the two cries had been those of a late night bird. He didn't know much about birds, but some of
them made noises like that, didn't they?
There
were other noises, unusual noises, sounds he couldn't recall hearing
before. They were very soft and he
wondered if he could only hear them now because of the silence and the fear,
but they were definitely there. It
sounded like something creaking, very, very slowly, and also a bit like
something scratching, and also like someone sighing, but not like the sighs of
those women on the shows - these sighs sounded softer, sadder and more painful.
It sounded like all these things, and
it seemed to come from the walls.
The
sounds seemed to vary in intensity, sometimes they sounded very soft so that he
had to really strain to hear anything at all, and even though the sound scared
and disturbed him, he always did.
Sometimes it was louder, and sometimes it seemed to be always growing in
volume as if whatever was making it was crawling up behind him and-
He
jumped. Something had fallen on his
shoulder and he had reacted the only way he could. He jumped. And
screamed. And leapt across his bed to
cower in the folds of his duvet, staring back at the wall which acted as his
headboard.
There
was nothing there, in the darkness. He
sat shaking for a while, wondering how long it would be before his father came
and shouted at him for screaming like a girl or decided to knock him
unconscious to save him the trouble of sleeping or- but no one came and in the
almost silence that noise filtered through still.
He
moved forward, reaching out to the spot where he lay. There was nothing there.
No, for a second he had felt something but it seemed to disintegrate
under his touch. There had been a
fragmentary, momentary something and it had fallen on him from above. Shakily he stood, reached his arms out, felt
for the ceiling. He let out another
tiny shriek as his hands touched a surface that was damp, flaky and apparently
moving. He fell to his knees, wrapped
the duvet back around himself and started to cry.
The
noise had been louder up there.
The walls were
alive, and they were crying.
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