Good god, how wrong I was.
I picked up a dozen or so mousetraps (yes, and a couple more bottles of my beloved sour mash whiskey before you ask) and set about putting my plan into action. The guy at the store tried to offer me those humane ones. How could I tell him that my traps were for little people who live in the walls, and would be intelligent enough to escape? Of course, there was no way I could tell him that, so I plumped for some of those old school wooden ones with the metal snaps designed to kill.
Good god, I just realised that this was only the day before yesterday. It almost seems like another lifetime. Anyhow, I better hurry up and finish this. I can almost imagine that I can hear the police sirens coming closer.
So, back to the mousetraps.
I put them in all the places I would expect mousetraps to go. In the corners of the rooms, in the cupboards themselves and in the kitchen where I had heard most of the scratching. I wasn’t even sure it would work, but I was desperate enough to try. I set my traps and sat on the sofa, intending to wait and watch, but the liquid stuff was calling me and I started on the first bottle, promising that I would drink half and save the rest for later. As always, my willpower deserted me, and I passed out after draining the entire bottle.
I was woken by the snap of a mousetrap.
Even though I was more than a little worse for wear because of the alcohol I had poured down my neck, I staggered to the kitchen, pushing the swing door open, desperate to see what I had caught. The two of them froze as they looked at me. One of them was injured, its foot severed by the mousetrap. His colleague had him under the arms and was dragging him towards the open kitchen cupboard. Behind, I could see more of them, huddled in the darkness as they watched the rescue take place. Even in the gloom, I could see them glaring at me. I grabbed the first thing I could see - the coffee cup that Hilary bought me for my birthday - the one that said coffee addict, with a huge arrow pointing up towards the drinker. I threw it overarm, grunting with rage. The cup shattered against the cupboard door, showering the miniature people in shards of broken ceramic, which to them must have looked like immense boulders. They flinched but didn’t deviate, continuing to drag their wounded colleague towards the safety of the cupboard. Two more came out to help, these armed with weapons - the old kitchen scissors that had been lost some time before, the other with what looked to be the business end of a corkscrew. Their tiny faces were painted with red war paint stripes, and as they dragged their wounded compatriot to safety, they paused to glare at me from across the room, their tiny faces twisted into hateful grimaces. With that, the cupboard door closed and I could hear the scratching in the walls as they moved around back there. Something happened then. Maybe it was rage, maybe it was fear. Probably, it was a combination of the two. All I knew is that I wanted them out of the house, out of my damn walls. I jogged across to where I had last seen them, the tiny blood trail leading from mousetrap the only evidence that they were ever there, and yanked open the cupboard door, spilling pans and dishes all over the floor as I searched for them. All I could hear was that incessant scratching in the wall. It felt like they were mocking me, laughing at me, just like Hilary. Just like Ted. The hammer had been in the toolbox which I had scooped onto the floor. The business end was large and sturdy, the kind of weapon that could do serious damage to action figure sized home invaders. I snatched it up, stumbled to the worktop and set it down, then with shaking hands, ripped open the top on the bottle of Jack Daniels that I had bought and gulped a third of it down in one, wincing as it burned my throat on its way down.
Haha! Come on then Trenton, stop being such a pussy! Let’s find these little shits!
My inner voice seemed to like the booze just as much as I did, and with another hefty swig of the good stuff for courage, I scooped up the hammer and swung it at the wall as hard as I could, screaming in both rage and defiance as I did it.
Plasterboard exploded, wood shattered.
Damn it felt good.
I cackled and swung the hammer again, revelling in another explosion of wood and plaster dust. I pulled at the hole, ignoring the cuts to my hands as I peered into the cavity. I couldn’t see them in there, but could still hear them scurrying through the walls. By then, I wasn’t about to let them escape me. I took the hammer to the wall again, chasing those scratching sounds around the house. By the time I had finished, I could barely move my arm, and my hair and clothes were covered in plaster dust and flecks of wood. The house looked like a warzone.
I didn’t see a single one of the little people.
I could still hear them, though, and somehow that was worse because it felt like they were mocking me. As was my way when faced with something I don’t want to deal with, I turned back to the bottle, crashed out on the sofa and drank myself into oblivion.
It was only half an hour ago that I woke up from that, and as I write my head is still fuzzy, although I’m pretty sober now after what happened. God knows, I would kill for another drink now ( the irony. Ha!). I feel like I need one. Anyhow, no time to get ahead of myself. The sirens that I imagined I could hear earlier are definitely coming, and not a moment too soon, the little guys have started to scratch around again in the walls. I better hurry up and finish this.
It was pain that woke me from my alcohol induced sleep. A tingling sharpness in my wrist. Headache thundered in my skull, and I forced my eyes open and looked down at my arm, which was hanging over the edge of the sofa.
There were two of them sitting there. One of them I’m almost certain was the one who had glared at me from the cupboard door as he had helped his wounded kin from the mousetrap. The other was ignoring me, tiny white teeth gritted in determination. They were holding a single blade from a pair of kitchen scissors and were sawing away at my wrist with it as if it were the world’s biggest redwood. Blood was already flowing, and I screamed out and threw my arm in the air, the two little people launching across the room like rag dolls. Although my wrist was bleeding pretty badly, I was lucky to have woken up before they did any serious damage. It was then that my overloaded brain realised what had been happening.
The little people had been trying to kill me.
I expected the idea of that to make me afraid, but instead, it was anger that surged through me, and I snatched up the hammer. The noise in the walls was deafening, a scratching mass of scurrying movement all around me. It sounded like an army back there, and I was their primary target.
Again, it just dawned on me that I should have left then, just got the hell out of there, but I inherited my father’s stubborn streak, and - with another swig of whiskey to steady my nerves - I readied my attack.
Most of the noise was coming from the kitchen. Subtle scratches, stealthy thuds. That seemed to be where they were most active, and if mousetraps didn’t work, then maybe a more direct approach would. Tightening my grip on the hammer, I charged across the room, kicking the door open and swinging the weapon with every ounce of strength I could muster I…
There was no way I could stop myself. I need to make that clear right now. Besides, how could I know she would be there?
I saw Hilary a split second before the hammer made contact with her head, her eyes wide and frightened, her mouth open in surprise. The sound was a wet crunch as her skull bowed inwards, the tray of toast and coffee that she was carrying crashing to the floor in a symphony of spilled liquid and broken crockery. She didn’t scream, I don’t think she had time. But don’t worry, I screamed enough for both of us. There was so much blood. I tossed the hammer aside, watching as it left a bloody streak behind where it slid to a halt by the wall. I cradled her head, and although I prayed that she would be okay, I knew just by looking that she was gone. Her eyes were glassy and wide, and I knew just by looking that whoever she had been before was gone. Blood ran from her nostrils and ears, and the top of her head was misshapen, a concave depression which quickly filled with blood. At some point, by screams turned into sobs, and I started screaming for help, hoping that someone
would come and tell me what to do.
That was when I saw them. The little people.
They were standing on the worktops, peering out of the cupboards. I even saw the one that I had caught in the mousetrap, standing on makeshift crutches with his tiny stump bandaged. There were more of them than I could have ever imagined. The two that had been hacking at my arm walked defiantly past where I knelt on the kitchen floor, my trousers and arms drenched with Hilary’s blood. They looked at me as they passed, tiny faces glaring and hateful. They knew they had beaten me, they knew I was broken and wouldn’t retaliate. I watched as they disappeared back into the walls, squeezing through gaps in the worktops, others through the holes in the walls that I had made with the hammer. The rest through the cupboards. The scratching as they made their way deeper into the spaces between the walls was very loud, but I didn’t care anymore. I don’t care anymore.
And that, I think brings us up to date. The scratchers are still moving around in the walls, and although I have closed the kitchen door I know Hilary is there. I didn’t think I loved her anymore, but knowing what I have done, knowing that she will no longer exist feels me with a guilt for which I know I can find no words. The fact that she came back to help me despite everything tells me that she still loved me. But now she will never love anyone ever again. The Scratchers saw to that.
I also know that the police won’t believe me and that in all likelihood, I will spend the rest of my days in some kind of institution as doctors prod and poke me and try to convince me that what I saw wasn’t real. But I know it was. Despite the breakdown and the alcohol and everything else, I know those little people are in the walls. And I know this is all their fault.
The police are here now, I can hear them knocking on the door. I should let them in, but I don’t think my legs would support me. Those little bastards in the walls know enough how to play the game, though. For the first time since this all started, they are silent. It has just dawned on me, as the police start trying to break down the door, that this could all be a figment of my imagination. Not Hilary of course, she’s dead, no doubt about it. But them, the Scratchers might not even be real.
What if, despite everything, I have imagined the whole thing? Could it be that my exhausted brain could have created them to fill the gap left by Hilary when she decided that Ted was a better option for a life partner?
Is it possible that the lack of sleep and excess of whiskey and vodka has rotted my brain to the point of hallucinating these things?
It’s possible, but I don’t think so. I know my mind, and I know what is real. I also suspect that this isn’t over. I expect that one day in the not too distant future, as I sit in my cell with the padded walls, that I will hear them again, skittering and scratching as they cut their way through to me. And when that happens, I guess we will just take it as it comes. It’s time to go. The police are almost in and I have a lot of explaining to do.
Wish me luck.
Trenton.
H_ N G _ _ N
“Make sure the noose is tight,” Dillon said to the guards as he paced back and forth, smoking his cigar.
Brad said nothing. He looked his captor in the eye and tried to show that he was unafraid, but Dillon's wide smile told him he hadn’t quite managed it.
“I understand you like games,” Dillon said as his guards checked the noose as instructed.
Brad again declined to respond, and instead clenched his fists. Although they were restrained behind his back and secured with cable ties, he would still give anything to have them freed just so he could beat some humility into the overweight mass of flesh in front of him.
Dillon was a French Canadian businessman, who due to his thriving export business, was also rich. He had homes in Monaco, Florida and Switzerland, and even a private jet which was painted black and had his name emblazoned on the side in gold.
The man himself was large, both in height and in stature. Brad was six two and slim. Dillon was maybe five inches or so taller and a couple of hundred pounds heavier. His face was smooth and flabby, his grin wide and somehow comical now that he had wedged the cigar into the side of his mouth. He squinted against the sun, glaring at Brad with eyes that were cruel and full of vengeance.
“Are you surprised at how things have transpired?” Dillon asked, puffing smoke as he came to a halt in front of the makeshift gallows.
“It’s not how I planned it,” Brad muttered as he adjusted his footing on the ladder.
Dillon snorted and paced, content, for the time being, to smoke and enjoy the sun. Brad looked around, trying to get some sense of his surroundings. He was in some kind of yard or compound. The grass on the ground was thick and yellow and swayed in the slight breeze. To his right, just inside his peripheral vision was the ghost of a building of some kind, which was attached to a huge sandstone wall which looked as if it encased the yard from any outside attention. He looked over it to the sky, which was a beautiful, deep blue.
Brad blinked away fresh rivulets of sweat from his eyes as the punishing heat of the day continued to burn down on him. As if reading his thoughts, Dillon spoke. His tone was cheerful and happy, which, considering what had happened, was a concern.
“If you are wondering where help might arrive from my friend, then I might save you the trouble. We are alone here. You and I will be able to conduct our business in peace.”
Brad didn’t want to believe him, and half considered trying to turn and look behind him, but his footing was so precarious on the top two steps of the ladder that he dared not move, let alone try to risk losing his balance by looking around. Instead, he concentrated on retaining his balance, and stared straight ahead, swallowing against the pressure of the rope on his neck.
“What is it that you want from me, Dillon?” He croaked.
Dillon smiled and switched the cigar to the opposite side of his mouth.
“From you, I want nothing, apart from answers.”
Brad licked his parched lips, the salty taste of his own sweat combined with fear threatening to break him and make him beg, but he knew that he couldn’t do that because that was what Dillon wanted. He forced aside the raging, butterfly fear in his stomach and concentrated on retaining his balance.
“This is quite the predicament, wouldn’t you say?” Dillon said as he walked to the step ladder and rested his hands on the top rung, just inches from Brad's feet. The gold rings on his fingers shimmered in the blazing sun, and Brad knew that it would take the smallest movement, the slightest shake from Dillon, and he would surely die. Perhaps sensing his terror, Dillon glared up at his prisoner with hatred and grinned.
“Don’t worry, it won't be that easy. Not until I get my answers,”
He grinned as he gripped the ladder and started to tip it back, and Brad almost lost his balance; he was teetering on the cusp of falling backwards and the certain death that would follow, yet he somehow managed to shift his weight and retain his balance as Dillon laughed and walked towards the wall.
“It’s hot today, isn’t it?” He said as he loosened the top button of his shirt. “Perhaps a drink is in order.”
Dillon motioned to one of his guards who scurried off out of sight. Brad heard a door open and close, and then there was silence. Dillon walked to the thermometer screwed to the wall and leaned close.
“Thirty-six degrees. It feels hotter in here, no?”
Brad didn’t respond, but it didn’t stop Dillon. He went on anyway, still in the same trivial tone.
“This area is something of a sun trap. It retains the heat of the day, although, by the looks of you, you already appreciate how hot it is.”
Dillon's lackey returned, bringing with him an ice-cold bottle of beer. Dillon took a long drink, and that alone made Brad’s stomach cramp with need.
“Ahh, that hits the spot,” Dillon said as he belched loudly. “I would offer you one of course but...” He grinned without humour as he took another sip. “You don’t look to be in any position to drink it.”
“Oh, but then I won't know.”
“Know what?”
Dillon looked at him with predatory eyes as the smile melted from his face.
“Why you thought you could sleep with my wife and get away with it.”
Dillon waited, perhaps expecting Brad to plead or beg. When neither came, he looked genuinely surprised.
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