Paul Jenning's Spookiest Stories

by Paul Jennings

Not that I did sleep. The ground was hard. And I couldn’t stop thinking about Philip.

  So I practised finger whistling. I blew until my lips were parched and dry. But not a sound could I get. It was hopeless.

  The next day I scrambled up and on. Rocks tumbled and crashed under my feet. They bounded into the valley way below. I became reckless. I didn’t stop to rest.

  I knew that time was passing too quickly. I dreaded to think what I might find when I reached the bat cave.

  I stopped for nothing. Not even to use the compass. After all, there was only one way to go. Up.

  That’s how I became lost. Found myself on a rocky outcrop. Tumbled into a crevasse. Lay dazed for hours. Lost my pack. Lost my compass. Lost my senses.

  In the end I crawled out and sat and cried. I had no map. No way of knowing where I was. Or where the cave was. I was totally lost.

  That’s when I saw it. Just hanging there on a bramble. A leather pouch. I stumbled over and grabbed it. I fumbled with the catch and looked inside. The green coloured stone with a hole in it.

  Philip must have dropped it again. Twice in three days?

  I couldn’t believe that he would keep dropping something so precious. It was the only thing he had to remind him of his mother.

  I smiled. I told myself that he left it there on purpose. For me. To show me the way. That’s what I thought anyway. That’s what I hoped.

  I grabbed the pouch and stumbled on. On to the very top. On to where the sheer rock cliffs fell down on every side.

  A small bridge of rock spanned a drop into the valley miles below. It was so far down that my head swam.

  And there, on the other side, hanging under an enormous shelf was what I had come for. The bat cave.

  Normally I would not have crossed that rocky bridge. Not for anything.

  But somehow I forced my trembling legs over. Until I stood there peering at the cave, staring into its black jaws.

  All was silent except for the soft breath of the cold mountain breeze.

  I looked at the roof of the cave. It seemed okay to me. How did Dad know that it was going to fall in?

  I held my fingers to my mouth and blew. Nothing. I couldn’t get a whistle. Not a squeak. It was hopeless.

  ‘Philip,’ I called. ‘Philip, come out. The cave is going to collapse.’

  Silence was the only reply.

  I forgot my promise to Dad. Or I pushed it into the back of my mind. I’m not sure which.

  With thumping heart I made my way into the gloom. Water pinged in the distance. A soft burbling noise surrounded me.

  As my eyes became used to the dark I could make out a huge boulder in the roof. It seemed to move. It did move. It was covered in thousands of hanging bats. Their wings rippled like a blanket floating on a lake.

  How long before that rock would fall? I trembled. ‘Philip,’ I called urgently. ‘Philip.’

  No answer. I raised my voice. ‘Come out, you stupid boy,’ I shouted. ‘Come out.’

  It was not Philip who was stupid. It was me. My voice echoed terribly around the walls. It bounced off the rocks. It shook the dry air.

  Without a speck of warning the living boulder above plunged to the ground. It shook the mountain to its roots. It filled the cave with choking dust.

  My voice had dislodged the boulder.

  Thousands of bats mingled with the dust. Circling. Screaming. Screeching. I turned and fled into the glaring sunlight. Another boulder fell. The sound of its smash pummelled the walls. More rocks fell.

  ‘Philip,’ I screamed. ‘Philip, come out.’

  Dust, like smoke from a fallen chimney, billowed into the mountain air. And through it came Philip. Blood flowed from a deep wound in his head. He staggered out and fell at my feet. Unconscious.

  I dragged him clear of the mouth of the cave. I pulled him towards the rocky bridge. And then stopped and stared, filled with terror at the sight.

  The bridge had broken. Fallen into the valley below. We were trapped on the mountain top. There was no way back.

  8

  Naked. Not a stitch on.

  Poor Philip. Lying there on the bare mountain. Exposed to the wind. Was he dead? I didn’t know.

  I should have put my jumper over him. Covered his nakedness. But there wasn’t time. Rocks were still falling. There was no way down. And the bats. The bats were doomed. ‘Help. Someone help.’

  No one answered. I was alone.

  I held my fists up to my mouth and blew. I wanted so badly to save the bats. I tried to whistle loudly but nothing came.

  The bats were still in there. They would die because of me. Because I raised my voice and disturbed the rocks. And Philip. Would he die too?

  He opened his eyes. He looked at me. Was he accusing me? Did his eyes say that I had murdered his friends?

  No, they did not. He smiled. He tried to speak but he couldn’t. Instead he touched the pouch that hung around my neck. His mother’s stone.

  ‘This,’ I said. He nodded and once more closed his eyes.

  I took out the green stone and stared at it. I knew what to do.

  I began to blow through the hole.

  The air was filled with a whistle. A strong, clear squeaking. The most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

  The cave echoed thunder. Not of falling rocks but of beating wings. Hundreds, thousands, millions of wings. The bats surged out of the cave. They darkened the sky. They filled the mountain top until nothing could be seen but a swirling swarm of grey. I had saved the colony.

  Philip opened his eyes and smiled. He took the stone from my fingers and blew. He whistled his own message to the bats.

  They dropped out of the sky like autumn leaves in a storm. I shrieked. They grabbed my hair. My feet. They pierced my jumper with tiny claws. The bats hung from me like rags.

  I stared at Philip. He was no longer naked, but like me wore a living cloak. Bat boy. Bat girl. Stranded. Together on Bat Peaks.

  The bats beat their wings in a terrible rhythm. They stirred up a storm of squealing fury.

  My feet left the ground. I was flying. Carried up, up, up. Lifted into the sky by a flurry of flapping wings. Held by tiny feet.

  The mountain lay far beneath. I saw an explosion of dust spurt out from the cave below. The roof had caved in.

  I gasped in shock at the sight of the valleys below. Like the prey of a mountain eagle I was lifted between the mountain tops.

  And above me, Philip, carried by his coat of friends, soared and swooped in the empty sky.

  He waved and pointed.

  Far, far beneath, in the tangled mat of trees was a wisp of smoke. Dad’s camp fire.

  The bats began to descend. Taking us down through the biting air.

  For the first time Philip spoke. He pointed down at the camp fire and said just one word.

  ‘Home.’

  And that is where we went.

  Mr Simpkin decided to run away from home. But not for twelve hours. When it was dark he would sneak out of bed and tiptoe down the stairs. Gobble wouldn’t know. He would be asleep by then. Snoring as usual.

  The kettle began to whistle. Mr Simpkin hurried into the kitchen to make Gobble’s coffee. Just the way he liked it. Four spoonfuls of sugar. Cream, not milk. Stirred five and a half times. No more, no less. The toaster suddenly popped. Mr Simpkin snatched the toast and buttered it. He had to hurry. Gobble hated cold toast. He was fussy about his food.

  The boiled eggs were ready too. All nine of them. Each egg had a little woollen hat to keep it warm.

  ‘Hurry up, idiot,’ Gobble called from his bedroom. He was awake. He didn’t like to wait for his breakfast.

  Mr Simpkin’s hands shook. He hurried into his brother’s bedroom. ‘Here it is,’ he said nervously. ‘Everything’s just right.’

  Gobble tried to sit up in bed. He was very, very fat. The bed sagged. It groaned and creaked. ‘Help me up,’ ordered Gobble. ‘Don’t just stand there like a fool.’

  Mr Simpkin put the tray on
the floor. He tried to heave Gobble up onto his pillows. But he couldn’t. His arms were too thin. His muscles were too small. He went red in the face as he heaved and strained at the bulging body. Gobble pushed him away. ‘Useless. Absolutely useless,’ he grunted, pulling himself up.

  With shaking hands Mr Simpkin put the tray on the bed. ‘Twelve pieces of toast with jam,’ he said. ‘And four pieces with orange marmalade. Your favourite.’ Mr Simpkin smiled at his fat brother. But the smile soon fell from his face.

  ‘Idiot,’ yelled Gobble. ‘I ordered twelve pieces with orange marmalade and four with jam.’ He picked up a slice of toast and threw it at the wall. For a moment it stuck there, glued to the wallpaper. Then it slid slowly down, leaving a jammy trail behind it.

  ‘Clean that up,’ shouted Gobble. ‘And then bring me the newspaper. You always forget the paper.’

  Mr Simpkin scurried off to fetch a sponge. ‘Yes, Arnold,’ he whispered.

  Gobble’s name wasn’t really Gobble. It was Arnold. But Mr Simpkin always called him Gobble in his mind. He was too scared to say it out loud. But it made him feel better. He smiled to himself. Arnold would be furious if he knew.

  2

  Mr Simpkin opened the door of the flat and walked down the stairs to fetch the paper. There were fifteen flights of stairs. He ran as quickly as he could to fetch the paper. He still had to make his own breakfast and then rush off to work. He didn’t want to be late.

  While Gobble read the paper in bed, Mr Simpkin prepared his own breakfast. He wasn’t allowed to eat the eggs. Or the bread. Or the cereals. He took out a can of sheep’s eyes and opened it. Last week, while shopping, he had bought a tin of sheep’s eyes by mistake – he thought they were oysters. Gobble was furious. ‘You bought them,’ Gobble shouted. ‘So you eat them.’

  Mr Simpkin opened the can and shook the contents onto a plate. The horrible, wobbling eyes slid out with a slurp. They seemed to be staring up at him. The smell was terrible. Mr Simpkin was hungry. But not that hungry. He just couldn’t eat them. He put the plate in the fridge and walked towards the door.

  ‘Goodbye, Gobb … I mean Arnold,’ he called.

  ‘It’s payday today,’ yelled Gobble. ‘Make sure you come straight home with the money. And don’t open the packet. I don’t want you wasting our wages on rubbish.’

  ‘No, Arnold,’ whispered Mr Simpkin. He crept off to work. Gobble had never had a job. He just lay in bed eating chocolates and watching television while poor little Mr Simpkin slaved away at the fertiliser factory all day.

  At the end of every week Mr Simpkin handed his pay packet over to Gobble. If Gobble was in a good mood he would sometimes give Mr Simpkin a few dollars for himself.

  Mr Simpkin just made it to work in time. He spent all day filling up fertiliser bags. It was hard work. He grew hungrier and hungrier. His stomach rumbled. At lunchtime he had nothing to eat. Gobble wouldn’t let him have any money to buy food until he’d eaten the can of sheep’s eyes. He was too scared to tip them down the drain in case Gobble caught him.

  ‘Aren’t you having any lunch?’ asked Tom Richards, the foreman.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Mr Simpkin. He wet his lips and watched sadly as Tom scoffed down his sandwiches.

  After work Mr Simpkin collected his pay packet and walked slowly home. Gobble would stuff the money in his pocket. He would tell Mr Simpkin to eat the sheep’s eyes for tea. He would fill his face with jellies and cakes while Mr Simpkin watched.

  The rain drizzled down. Mr Simpkin walked more and more slowly. He thought about his plans to run away. Why wait until tonight? Why not run off now? Keep the money. It was his money. He could start a new life. Get another job where Gobble couldn’t find him.

  He could go to a motel for the night. Gobble had thousands of dollars in a tin under the bed. It was all money that Mr Simpkin had earned. He wished that he could get some of it but he knew that Gobble would never hand it over.

  3

  The streets were full of people rushing home. It was cold. But Mr Simpkin smiled to himself. He tore open his pay packet. The dollar bills were folded neatly. They were all his. Every one. It made him feel terrific to open his own pay packet.

  He would do it. He decided straightaway. He would go to a motel and book in. He would order an enormous meal. Gobble could eat the sheep’s eyes if he wanted. Just the thought of it made Mr Simpkin chuckle. A motel. That’s where he would go. But first he needed to find a toilet. All of the excitement was making him nervous. He needed to go to the loo.

  Nearby was a park. Mr Simpkin ran across the wet grass. Soon he was surrounded by trees. It was growing dark. Where was the toilet? There was one around here somewhere.

  There it was. Under the trees. A bluestone building. Like a jail.

  Mr Simpkin looked at his watch. Two minutes to five.

  He found the MEN sign and hurried inside.

  Someone had written on the wall. There was scribble everywhere. Mr Simpkin didn’t read it. Graffiti usually said rude things. He tried not to look at the scrawled writing. But he couldn’t help himself. Just above his head was scribbled:

  1. THIS JOINT GETS LOCKED AT FIVE.

  There was a loud clang and the sound of a key turning.

  At first Mr Simpkin did nothing. Then he realised. Someone had shut the gate and locked it. He rushed over to the iron gate. It was fixed with a chain and padlock. ‘Hey,’ he called out softly. ‘I’m in here.’

  He was too embarrassed to shout. He heard footsteps disappearing. ‘Excuse me,’ he called softly. ‘Er, excuse me.’

  The footsteps disappeared. No one answered his call. He was alone. Locked in a public toilet. On a cold and wet night.

  He plucked up his courage. ‘Help,’ he shouted. ‘Help, help, help.’

  The park was silent. The toilet was silent. He looked up at the roof where one lonely light globe glowed in the dark. There was no way out. He was trapped.

  4

  The night grew colder. Mr Simpkin shivered and drew his coat around himself. ‘Help,’ he yelled again. ‘Help, help, help.’

  The rain dripped silently. There was no answer. He knew no one would come until morning. He looked around for somewhere to sit. The floor was wet and cold. And he was hungry.

  He started to look at the graffiti. There was another bit with a number. It said:

  2. THE BEST SEAT IN THE HOUSE.

  An arrow pointed to one of the cubicles. Mr Simpkin gave a weak grin. Someone had a sense of humour. He followed the arrow into the cubicle. And gasped. The toilet seat was covered in velvet. The pan shone like gold. The cistern button was a diamond. The toilet was more like a throne than a loo.

  This was crazy. Why would anyone put such a wonderful seat there? Vandals could wreck it in no time at all.

  He stared around the cubicle. There was another piece of numbered graffiti. It read:

  3. NO STANDING.

  Suddenly Mr Simpkin felt an urgent need to sit down. His legs seemed to make him walk. He shuffled forward and sat on the velvet-lined toilet seat. He tried to stop, but he couldn’t. Well, he thought that he couldn’t. Maybe he had been feeling a little tired. Yes, that was it.

  Something scuffled in the gloom. He stared at the corner. A shadow moved. And scuttered. Mr Simpkin’s heart froze. Little bumps spread across his flesh.

  A rat. He hated rats. He lifted his feet off the ground. ‘Shoo,’ he said softly. ‘Scat.’

  The rat scurried into a hole.

  The minutes ticked by. Mr Simpkin sat watching for the rat but there was no sign of it. After a while he noticed more numbered graffiti. There was another piece of writing scrawled above the toilet-roll holder. It said:

  4. ROCK’N’ROLL.

  More jokes. He stared at the toilet-roll holder. It moved. He was sure that it moved. It gave a little jiggle.

  Mr Simpkin shook with fear. Something strange was going on. He wanted to get out of this loo. Someone was playing jokes. And they weren’t funny.

 
; 5

  The toilet-roll holder began to jig. Back and forward. Up and down in a regular beat like a musician tapping his feet. It was jigging to silent music. It was beating out a tune. Mr Simpkin thought that he had heard it somewhere before. He was sure it was an old rock’n’roll number.

  Without warning the jigging stopped.

  Even though it was cold Mr Simpkin began to sweat. He was trapped like a rat in a crazy toilet.

  He tried to figure it out. There was something strange about the writing on the wall. The first bit of numbered graffiti had said ‘this joint closes at five’. And it had. On the dot. Nothing strange about that.

  But the next one had pointed to ‘the best seat in the house’. And it was the best seat. And the weirdest.

  And then there was the ‘no standing’ sign. Forcing him to sit down. And what about the ‘rock’n’roll’ paper holder? It had started to rock’n’roll. It really had. Or was it just the wind? Or the water pipes shaking it?

  Mr Simpkin had the feeling that he was going out of his mind. But then – if you are mad, you are the only one who doesn’t know, and he was wondering whether or not he was sane. So he couldn’t be mad. Or could he?

  ‘Get a grip of yourself, man,’ he whispered. His voice echoed around the lonely lavatory.

  There was only one explanation. He tried to push the thought from his mind. He tried to stop thinking it. But the unwanted thought winkled its way into his brain. The graffiti was coming true. Acting itself out. Everything written on the wall was happening.

  Mr Simpkin’s hands began to shake. He rushed over to the locked gate and shook the bars. ‘Help,’ he called. ‘Get me out of here.’

  Water dripped and pinged but there was no reply.

  He shouted and yelled. Kicked and screamed. But the empty night gave no answer.

  Slowly he walked back to the velvet seat and sat down. He closed his eyes tightly. He didn’t want to read the walls. He was too terrified to think about it.

  A sound disturbed the silence. A hinge creaked loudly. Mr Simpkin opened his eyes and stared. The cubicle door slowly swung outwards.