Mr Mumbles (4 page)

I ran for the front door, not sure where I was going, but certain I had to get out. Outside I could make it to the safety of a neighbour’s house. Inside I was a sitting duck in the dark. Not even stopping to snatch up my coat, I reached for the door handle.

Just as my fingers wrapped round the cool metal a shape stepped up to the door, as if it had been standing out there just waiting to make a move. Its shadow passed across the frosted glass, blurred and impossible to make out clearly.

My shoulder slammed hard against the wood, sending a jolt of pain along my spine and making me drop the baseball
bat. Gripped by panic, I pushed my weight against the door, holding it closed. The lock, which I’d used thousands of times before, was awkward and stiff in my trembling fingers, and it took all my effort to work the catch. With a concentrated effort, I finally got it to click into position as – just a few centimetres from my face – sharp knuckles rapped slowly on the door’s small window pane.

‘Go away!’ I cried, my voice shaking as badly as my hands. I backed away from the door, not daring to take my eyes off the outline of the figure lurking outside. ‘My mum’s going to be home in two minutes, so you’d better get out of here!’ I lied. Mum would probably still be at the home, still trying to get Nan to go with the nurses, still trying to get away. I was on my own, with someone or some
thing
standing right outside the front door!

Which left the back door clear, I realised. Whoever was outside was at the front of the house. And unless you go in through the living room and out through the kitchen, the only way to get to the back garden from the front is by going round the whole house. It’s a twenty-second sprint in good
conditions, so in the dark, and with the wind and rain, it’d take at least double that.

That meant I’d have a forty-second head start to get out the back and across to the next row of houses over the road. Forty seconds to get away. I almost cried with relief. I’d get out of this yet.

The rhythmic rapping stopped as I sped through to the kitchen, catching the side of the door frame and swinging myself through for extra speed. My feet found a puddle of cooking oil and I skidded and slipped my way to the back door, arms outstretched and flailing wildly to keep me from falling on my face.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

My stomach almost ejected my entire Christmas dinner as I realised I was too late.

They were already at the back door.

But nothing could have made it round that fast. It was impossible. There had to be two of them out there, that was it. Nothing supernatural about it. Just two people messing around. That’s what I told myself, but whether I believed it or not is a different matter.

The key wasn’t in the lock. There wasn’t time to look for it, so I scrambled unsteadily over to the table and snatched up a chair. Thank God we’d taken them back through from the living room after dinner.

Struggling to stay upright on the slippery floor surface, I wedged the back of the wooden chair tight against the door handle, jamming the door tightly closed. It probably wouldn’t hold them off for long, but at least it’d buy me some time to…

To what? I had no idea what I was going to do next. I’d been working on sheer adrenaline for the past five minutes, and hadn’t really expected to make it this far. There’d been no time to think ahead, and now my escape routes were blocked. There was no way out of the house. I was trapped!

The steady knocking on the back door was driving me crazy. It might have had something to do with the shape of the kitchen, or the number of wooden cabinets mounted on the walls, but the knocking seemed to echo more in here, making the sound even louder.

I couldn’t stand listening to it for another second. Stopping only to shove the table up against the chair for extra support,
I left the kitchen and pulled the door closed behind me. Maybe the door blocked out the sound, or perhaps the knocking stopped right at that second. Either way I couldn’t hear it any more.

Back in the living room, I risked a glance at the front door. The silhouette no longer filled the little window. From here the way looked clear, but for all I knew whoever was doing this was standing just outside, waiting to grab me as soon as I stepped out into the night. That was a chance I wasn’t about to take.

In the gloom, my hands searched the sideboard for the phone. This was too big to handle on my own now. I’d call Mum. Or the police. The army, maybe. Anyone who could help me.
Please,
I thought.
Someone help me!

The handset wasn’t in its cradle.
Stupid portable phone,
I cursed, looking around for any sign of the slim silver telephone. My eyes proved almost useless in the dim light, and I was forced to carry out a fingertip search of the couch, the coffee table, and every other likely hiding place.

Before I could even properly begin searching, a sharp rap of knuckles sounded on the living-room window. Frantically I hunted for the handset, too terrified to look towards the source of the sound. I was babbling incoherently, tears staining my cheeks, barely able to think. I found myself searching the same places over and over again; moving the same cushions, lifting the same pieces of scrunched and torn wrapping paper.
Where was it?!

Another bolt of lightning tore the sky, briefly freeze-framing everything in the room. Through the window, the electric-blue light cast a long, looming shadow on the wall across from the window.

The shadow of a man in a wide-brimmed hat.

In the flash I spotted the phone sitting on top of the TV. I’d seen it in the dark, but assumed it was the remote control. A vague memory of Nan trying to switch on the telly with it earlier popped into my head, before being pushed back down again by sheer, choking terror.

Mum always forgot to put the handset back on charge and the little battery symbol was blinking at me in a way that
seemed far too cheerful, given the circumstances.
‘Please,’
I begged it. ‘Enough for one call!’

It was nearly ten miles to the care home. The police station would be much closer. If I was lucky there’d be someone at the local one, otherwise they’d have to send someone from town. Why did I have to live in such a backwater?

Fingers shaking, eyes blurred with tears, I stabbed three nines on the keypad and held the receiver to my ear.

Nothing happened. I pulled the phone away and peered at the little LED display. The battery was still flashing, but it was hanging in there. The number was right, but it wasn’t working.
Why wasn’t it working?

Trying to ignore the sound of the knocking on the window, I pressed the cancel button and redialled the number.

‘Come on,’ I hissed, as I waited for something to happen. ‘Come on, come on,
come on!’

After what seemed like an eternity, I heard the ringing tone I’d been waiting for.
Yes!
In just a few seconds the line gave a faint click as someone answered.

‘Help me,’ I begged, not even waiting for the
emergency operator to speak. ‘I need the police, there’s someone here. They’re trying to get into my house! Please, come quick!’

An empty hiss down the line was the only reply.

‘Hello?’ I said into the soft static. For a moment I could hear my own voice drift off into the chasm of silence on the other end of the phone. Another failed connection? I’d have to hang up and dial again.

Before I could end the call, a low moan reached my ear, breaking up and distorting as it travelled down the telephone line.

‘H-hello?’ I said again. My voice echoed back to me, and I could hear my own fear.

Further moans and groans crackled from the earpiece, low and menacing, but with some urgency in their tinny tones. As I listened, I realised the sounds weren’t just random groaning at all. If I concentrated I could almost make out what sounded like words. Broken words.

Mumbled words.

I concentrated harder still on the distorted, indistinct voice.
And then, suddenly, the sounds made sense. I understood them. Every word.

Time to die.

I let the handset slip from my fingers. The plastic back flew off as it bounced on the carpet, letting the tired battery ping free. A low mumbling repeated over and over in my head –
time to die, time to die, time to die…

I jumped as the CD player suddenly sprung into life. The electricity was off, yet somehow the orange LED display on front of the machine had blinked on. Hypnotised, I watched the track number display count slowly upwards. One. Two. Three. It made it all the way to track eight, then stopped.

For a moment there was nothing but the faint
whirr
of the disk spinning, then the music began, loud enough to shake the walls. I threw my hands over my ears to protect my eardrums as Nan’s Christmas hits CD kicked in.

You’d better watch out,

You’d better not cry,

You’d better not pout,

I’m telling you why,

Santa Claus is comin’ to town.

My finger flew to the power button. I pressed it once, but the music played on, drowning out all other noise. Again and again I stabbed my finger against the controls, but the machine didn’t respond to any of them.

Reaching down behind the player, I gave a short, sharp yank on the power cable. It would have to shut up after that.

But it didn’t.

He sees you when you’re sleeping,

He knows when you’re awake…

My whole body shook with shock. This couldn’t be happening. This was impossible.

Frantic with fear, I brought the baseball bat down hard on the CD player. The plastic casing gave a
crack,
the disk let out a deafening screech, and then silence returned to the living room.

I waited, bat raised, eyes fixed on the stereo. The storm howled outside, but inside all was quiet. Cautiously, I
lowered the bat, turned away, and got back to trying to think of a way out of this mess.

Click.
Over my shoulder, I heard the display on the CD player blink into life once again. Track eight kicked back in straight away. This time, though, it seemed stuck in an endless repetitive loop.

You’d better watch out, tsssk.

You’d better watch out, tsssk.

You’d better watch out, tsssk.

I lifted my leg to stamp on the machine. Suddenly, the window to my right exploded inwards, showering the room with deadly shards of glass. The couch shielded me as I threw myself to the floor behind it, my hands held protectively over my head.

As soon as the last pieces had fallen, I leapt back to my feet. A tall dark figure drew itself up to its full height on the other side of the sofa.

Another lightning bolt cast a blue aura around the figure, revealing his long dark overcoat pulled up to his ears, and his black hat pulled down almost to meet it. My mouth
flapped open and closed, acting out the motions of screaming, but too choked with terror to actually manage the noise.

The figure fixed me with a beady glare and a million memories came rushing back, as if a dam had been thrown wide open in my subconscious. They were overpowering. Overwhelming. The sheer force of them nearly knocked me off my feet. They couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be true.
It couldn’t be happening!

Deep down, though, I knew it was. Deep down I finally understood exactly what was going on.

Mr Mumbles was back.

I
remembered.

Every line, every detail of the figure before me was…no, not the same. Familiar, but different. The Mr Mumbles of my childhood hadn’t been quite like this. He had been short and skinny with friendly, shining eyes and a gift for slapstick.

His speech had always been impossible to understand, but he’d made up for it with his wide range of comedy pratfalls and skilful miming. He had been my funny little friend. My very own Charlie Chaplin.

The thing standing before me now didn’t look funny at all.

The clothes were the same – the overcoat with its high collar, the curve of the hat. Parts of his face looked vaguely like I remembered – the bushy eyebrows, the big ears – but
others couldn’t have been more different.

His once playful eyes were dark and sunken. He’d had jolly, rosy cheeks, but now they were pale and wrinkled, like old paper. Even in the dark I could make out the spidery, dark blue lines of veins creeping below the skin.

Every detail was so lifelike. He was so real. Solid. And standing in the middle of my living room.

I’m not sure, but I think even when I was young I kind of knew Mr Mumbles wasn’t real. Not
really
real, anyway. That’s not to say I couldn’t see him back then, but I suppose the
way
I saw him wasn’t the same. He was more like a ghost I could conjure up. A supernatural spirit dressed for stormy weather, invisible to everyone but me. My best friend.

Not any more.

Sparks of hatred flashed in the dark centres of those eyes. Above them, his bushy, caterpillar eyebrows pushed down, contorting what I could see of his forehead into a twisted frown. The scowl seemed to continue down to the tip of his hooked nose, flaring his nostrils out wide.

And his lips…
Oh, God, the lips!
Mr Mumbles had always
had problems with talking, but it had been a speech impediment, that was all. Now his whole mouth was disfigured.

The lips were grotesque: thick, bloated, and sewn tightly together with grimy lengths of thread. Each stitch crossed over its neighbour, forming a series of little Xs from one side of his mouth to the other, sealing it shut. The holes the threads passed through were black and infected, the flesh rotting away from within.

My God. What had happened to him?

I should have been off and running, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his. When I was younger, he’d been a little taller than me, but not much. Now he towered above me, easily six and a half feet in height. Up till now, the solid weight of the baseball bat had been giving me comfort, but now it felt flimsy and light, like a child’s toy.