He Lives in the Wall

Part One

Today, I made a new friend. His name is Freddy Fanshawe - Fanshawe, for short - and he lives in the wall. There's no one particular wall he prefers; he likes to move about. Sometimes he lives in my bedroom wall; other times he lives in the bathroom wall; sometimes in the kitchen wall. No one else can see Fanshawe but me.

I heard Fanshawe the first night we moved in—about a week ago. My parents had moved to an area where I had no friends. Attending a new school filled me with the utmost dread. I hated my huge new bedroom—it didn't even have cellular signal; signal strength ended where my street began. I seemed to have been shoved to the top of a witch's turret overlooking the barren front yard. I think my parents put me at the top floor to forget me. I believe they only conceived me to keep both sides of the families happy with a grandchild.

I unpacked one box of the many possessions gifted to keep me distracted from being included in the family fold. My old school friends envied my luxuries and me, but I envied my friends back—more than they could realise. At least they had love. All I have is electricals.

My new bedroom felt cold and damp. Instead of my parents decorating it ready – or, even hiring someone to do the job, with their swollen bank accounts – they simply shoved a couple of heartless hundred pounds of cash in my pocket. My first afternoon as the street's new arrival involved an unwanted trip to the paint store. I caught the bus back, armed with paint brushes, turpentine, and a tin of magnolia paint. I could have painted my room black for all my parents cared but I decided on the most boring colour; I yearned for a boring and normal life.

Our new house doesn't boast an indoor swimming pool like our last home, but I expected we wouldn't be staying long; we were always on the travel. Still, this new house came with planning permission to build an indoor private recreation area. I expected to enjoy a short use before we upped sticks.

It was while I stroked the walls with fresh lick of magnolia that I first heard an odd noise from behind my bedroom wall. At first, I assumed a family of wild rats had taken nest in this ugly Victorian building. I tried to ignore it, promising to visit the home improvement store again tomorrow to buy rat bait. A series of scratching sounds socked my ears, so I glued my earphones to my head and listened to rock music.

When it came to painting the next wall I failed to disguise the ugly cream and floral wallpaper. Fortunately I invested in a scraper so I soaked the walls and began to tear, scrape and peel. The scraping echoed back. Maybe it's the rats greeting their new neighbour, I thought. So, to scare the rats, I thumped on the wall. The wall thumped back. I thumped again. So did the wall. I knew it to be ridiculous for rats to have fists. I mean, did rats wear boxing gloves? I thumped again. This time, something appeared to slam into the other side of the wall. I jolted back, tipping a puddle of paint on the old, wooden floor.

'Austen,' I heard my mother yell. 'Dinner's ready.'

I knew my mother hadn't actually cooked. She rarely did. Still, I forgave them for ordering yet another takeaway as we hadn't unpacked any pots and pans. Over dinner, I informed my parents about the possibility of an infestation of rats. They gave each other carefree blank looks. I'm not sure they even believed me. The most concern I could get from them was a patronising, 'I haven't heard any scratching, have you, Lawrence?' 'No, Jennifer, I haven't, either.' 'We'll call pest control in the morning. What do you say, Lawrence?' 'I think it's a good idea, Jennifer.' Yes, my parents were quick to act but with a lack of passion. There was more action in my four walls than in the company of my parents. I cleaned my fork and returned to my bedroom.

Belly stuffed, I felt exhausted after dinner. I stared at the many more boxes I needed to unpack. It would take me at least a month. I wished I had have discarded many of my belongings before our move. I was getting tired of this constant packing and unpacking. I opened one box and designated a corner of my bedroom in which to make a pile of unwanted. I had become attached to a few items, such as my telescope, Burley Bear, and my collection of old toy cars. It was the model aeroplanes, plastic bricks, and the little sailing boat, comic books, and baseball glove I decided I no longer needed. And, even if I did, I knew my parents would replace valuables without question. They simply just didn't care to question anything. I carelessly threw the unwanted toys into the corner. The box of model aeroplanes fell to the floor. I stood up and walked over to tidy them up. The blue one that had toppled to the floor, had an untidy-etched message: To Austen. Love from dad. Had my father really taken the time to write me a message? Up until that day I hadn't even noticed. I proceeded to scramble through the box to see if my father had written any other notes—he hadn't.

I lay on my bed with my music player. I screwed the earphones tightly into my head so as not to hear my parents shouting their conversations from one room to another. 'Have you got a paintbrush, Lawrence?' 'Yes, Jennifer.' 'Shout me if you need me, Lawrence.' Yes, I will, Jennifer.' Ugh! I swear they loved the sound of their own voices a few decibels above legal. I switched the volume higher. Then I became aware of beats out of tune with the current song. At first I imagined I was tired or my earphones acted up. I ignored the sound until it got louder, and gradually—deafening. I yanked out my earphones and looked around. My bedroom was still. After a minute I replaced the earphones and the strange beats resumed. Again, I took out my earphones and inspected the buds for external anomalies. The new earphones cost no less than two-hundred quid so I felt no pleasure in realising I would be the one to take a trip up town to get them fixed. I gave up listening to music as a bad job and decided to turn in for the night. My duvet still had its unwashed cover; it wouldn't have fresh one until my bedroom was clean.

I closed my eyes. . .

As soon as I began to drift, I heard the movement from behind the wall. 'Shut the hell up, already,' I said as I threw a book in its direction. The noise stopped. 'Thank you,' I said, and lay my head back on my pillow. Just as I opened the door to sleepy-land I heard a strange voice whisper, 'You're welcome.' I jolted upright.

'Mum. Did you just say something?'

'No, honey. Our other items won't be delivered until tomorrow,' said my mother.

I know, right? She simply didn't care about her only son. I closed my eyes and tiredness, mixed with fresh paint, suffocated me to sleep.

Was my bedroom haunted? Did my creepy turret room have a ghost floating inside its walls? Trust me when I say I barely slept that night. I know you believe me. 

To be continued. . .