He Lives in the Wall

He Lives in the Wall (Part 2)

I awoke early, the next morning. Several birds took it upon themselves to gather on the outer-sill of the turret and bang out a chorus. Daylight was my silent alarm clock; my bedroom window faced dawn who tore through dusk's black wallpaper. I grabbed a box of cereal from the kitchen – no located bowls – and headed back to my room to savour my dairy-free snack. I stared at the pile of bric-a-brac in the corner. I felt deflated upon realising it appeared a lot smaller than last night.

It was noon before I decided to resume the coating of the walls. The paint on the first wall had dried, and had obvious huge patches where I had missed. I picked off the paint lid to discover I had used more paint than I had realised. And where was my brush? I could have sworn I had dipped it in the turpentine tub. Not to worry, I had a spare. I set about using the meagre amount of paint. It wasn't long before I heard the scratching. I would have reminded my mother to call the pest control but I know she would busier herself with other things before I got a look in.

I checked my wallet: I had plenty of cash left over from yesterday. I took another trip to the independent home improvement store; this time, without telling my parents. The same clerk as before served me. His name is Bob; a balding bloke around his late-fifties, early-sixties. He spoke so pleasantly. I guessed he felt as lonely. He was eager to show me around the store and how he had organised the shop floor. I found out so much about him: he lived three streets away; he had a wife and two grown-up sons; his retired older brother owned the store; he had worked here for thirty-five years. Within the twenty minutes of being in his company, I had enjoyed more of an engaging conversation than I ever had with both my parents combined in seventeen years. And at least I had made one good friend in my new neighbourhood. He continued to advise me on the most efficient rat bait before discounting ten-per-cent of my total purchase. He also said that if I ever needed him to call the out-of-hours number on the business card. I thanked him and bid him good day. I returned on the bus, just as the day before. My phone beeped, but I lost signal on the corner of my street, just as the day before.

I opened the squealing front gate and looked up at the ugly, sickly-green turret. My narrow bedroom window looked dark and depressed. Once inside, I grabbed one of the cheese and pickle sandwiches, made by my mother, and read the note left on the napkin: One sandwich for Lunch; one for dinner, and one for supper. Both my parents had left for work. They are both scientists. I couldn't believe they had left our front door unlocked. I started to believe they cared very little for anything but themselves. I rinsed my plate and left it to drain.

It was when I placed one foot on the stairs that I heard a low-grumbling sound coming from the upstairs. Armed with only a tin of paint I crept up the stairs, careful not to antagonise the creaking stair-monster. I slowly checked the first bedroom, then the second, then the third, and, finally, the fourth. My foot impressively flung open the bathroom door—nothing and nobody.

I felt reluctant to believe the growling sound omitted from a rat's mouth, given the fact I had never heard of rat growling. And, well, it definitely wasn't the cheeky, chirpy birds. Still, I had another floor to investigate; the floor where my bedroom and another spare room are situated.

I opened the door that led to the upper floor and tiptoed lighter than a butterfly on a flower. Upon checking both my bedroom and the stale-stench spare room, I found no intruder. 'It must've been the blooming rats,' I said to myself. I placed the tin of paint on my bedroom floor. I needed to scrape off more wallpaper before beginning to paint the second wall. But, as I began to scrape more wallpaper I noticed the wall had a hole in it the size of a fist. This must be their door, I thought. No wonder the rats are stuck in the walls. Still, I didn't fancy them crawling out and running free across my bedroom floor. So, I tore open the rat poison, tipped it inside the hole, and sealed it shut with screwed-up wallpaper. I stepped back and sat on my bed and waited for sounds. I heard nothing. I looked to the corner of my unwanted items. My little sailing boat anchored like a cake topper. I thought back to the day I first received the little sailing boat. It had been given to me on my fifth birthday—a scorching summer July. My father had taken me to the local park where we sailed the boat. My father had attached a line of cotton to the mast just in case the breeze blew it to where our arms couldn't reach. It was then I noticed my box of plastic brick and my rubber ball were missing. I rummaged through my discards like a ravenous tip-rat but they remained missing. I looked underneath my bed—nothing. Maybe I had been too tired from moving. Maybe I had dreamt I had unpacked them. Maybe they were still in the removal boxes. I revisited the now-untidy pile of discards. I scratched my head in confusion. A box of plastic bricks and a rubber ball just don't simply vanish into thin air. I thought of my parents. What if they have moved them? I thought. It was possible, though not quite. I always had to pressure my mother to wash my sweaters and hoodies; why would they, then, take the time to scramble through my discards and choose what to throw away? They could, of course, become attached to the plastic bricks and rubber ball. Maybe those items held special memories so they decided to hoard them in an undiscoverable place of this ugly Victorian house.

I commenced scraping the walls until I'd scalped it clean of any trace of wallpaper. I'd done an impressive job. I needed water. My throat was dry and my mouth refused to accept the fumes of paint. I was only two minutes downstairs. When I returned something caught my eye. An old and broken pocket watch rested on the rug in my bedroom. I'd never seen that watch before in my life. I knew I hadn't left it there so now I truly feared someone was in the house. My brain worked in overdrive as I realised what era the house had been built. The pocket watch looked like it belonged to that era. With trepidation I picked the watch from the floor. I studied it. It was old, alright. It smelt funny, too; muzzy and rusty. It smelt as though it had been in some stinky old man's pockets—for centuries. I threw it in the corner of my room. My little sailing boat toppled from its peak and landed on the watch.

I willed my parents to return. I didn't want to be in this house all alone; except for I felt I wasn't alone. I sensed another presence. It could be an intruder; it could be a spirit. I thought back to the sandwiches: obviously my parents had no intentions of returning until late. I couldn't even call them. We had no landline and my mobile phone signal left on the corner of the street.

I thought about old-man Bob at the home improvement store. He had told me that if I ever needed anything then I was to call him. Maybe if walked to the end of my street. . . No, that was a ridiculous idea. Old-man Bob did emergency repairs, not emergency rescues. Then, a terrifying thought crossed my mind: I hadn't bothered to secure the house. For all I knew there could be more creepers making their way in.

Then, the strange tapping from behind my bedroom wall started again. I sat frozen on my bed and stared at the wall. I didn't know what would happen but I expected something to happen. Tap, tap, Tap. Three consecutive taps, each with a perfect second between. Rats didn't wear boxing gloves and they certainly couldn't keep time. I dared to step closer to the wall. The tapping continued. My ear met the wall, followed by my hands. Tap. Tap. Tap. There it was again. Tap. Tap. Tap. With one finger I echoed its sound. Tap. Tap. Tap. It answered.  I stepped back and gasped. Then, nothing. No sound. I repositioned myself to the wall. Again, I tapped. It tapped back. I decided to tap once. It tapped once. I tapped twice. It tapped twice. I tapped ten times. It tapped back ten times.

Fascination began to twin with fear. I pinched myself. Surely I couldn't be dreaming or imagining this. I pressed my mouth onto the wall. 'Huh-hello?' I then placed my ear to the wall. 'Hello.' This time my shock flung me onto my backside. The wall had spoken; a soft, low-gravelly voice came. I scrambled back onto my bed, but got my foot tangled in my bedsheets. The next thing I knew I fell and hit my head. My mother said she found me asleep on my bedroom floor when my parents returned back home from the laboratory.