He Lives in the Wall

He Lives in the Wall (Part 3)

My mother sat with me all night until I awoke. She told me I had slept through all the minor exams the doctors and nurses had performed on me. My mother told me about the old man in the bay next to snoring; the man the other side had been in a motorcycle accident and had groaned in pain. He had two broken legs. My head hurt. I felt dazed. Hang on. Where was I? I had awoken in a private hospital room. A doctor came to discharge me; I had suffered concussion and just needed to rest. The tests had thankfully found no obvious signs of long-term damage. I didn't have a drip attached or my head mummified in bandages; just a pot of strawberry jelly and a plastic tub of apple juice were prescribed for my full recovery.

We drove home in silence; my parents made just one odd small talk with each other. I didn't mind. All I could think about was the voice from behind my bedroom wall. My parents were so wrapped up in themselves they hadn't even asked me how I came to fall. Still, what good would it do if I told them I believed something lived behind my wall?

My father helped me to my room. My mother presented me with a tray of tomato soup, a bowl and a sweet cup of tea. My father sat on the end of my bed and reached for the model aeroplanes. 'You throwing these out, son?' I affirmed. 'I remember writing on the little blue one. Or was it the little read one?'

I felt disappointed that my father would act so surprised I was throwing old toys away given the fact I had turned seventeen. 'It was the blue one, dad,' I said. At that point, he hasn't even noticed my attempts at redecorating my room.

My father picked up the red one just to make sure. 'Where is the blue one?' I pointed over to my bedside cabinet—except for it wasn't there. I tipped upside down and looked under my bed. It wasn't there, either. Strange, I thought. 'I can't find it,' I told my father. 'Maybe you left it in the old house. I can give the new owners a call—' 'No, dad. I had my belongings here—yesterday.' 'Maybe you thought you did,' said my father. 'I didn't—' my father patted my shoulder. 'There, there, son. You've had a nasty bump on the head.'

I felt so frustrated. My parents dumbed down everything I ever said. And what did I car for that stupid old aeroplane, anyway? I looked towards my bedroom wall. I heard no sounds. I ate my soup and drank my tea. My father wandered about my room. 'Well, son, you've certainly made an excellent job decorating your bedroom, so far; I like the colour.' I smiled. 'When I gave you the money to decorate your own room I was expecting you to paint it black or have solar system wallpaper,' he said.

'That's why I painted it magnolia; I didn't want to disappoint you or mum,' I told him.

'Son, you never disappoint me or your mother,' he said. 'But when you're better you might want to sweep up those little blue crumbs.' His rolled his foot over what appeared to be the rat pellets. They literally sat a good length of the wall. The box of pallets still sat upright on my shelf.

I was certain I hadn't spilled any out when pouring them into the hole. I now feared there wasn't any rats at all, and that the wall had spat them back.

He bent down to pick up the tray with my empty bowl and mug. Underneath lay the pocket watch. 'Hey, son. Where did you get this?' he asked. 'I don't know,' I said. 'It was just kinda in my room.'

'It must have belonged to one of the previous owners,' he said. 'I bet it's got some memories attached—and value. Maybe you should have it valued.'

'Maybe,' I said.

He gently rattled the watch and tapped the face. 'It works.' He placed it on my bedside cabinet.

'Hey dad,' I began. 'Have you taken any of my things from my bedroom?'

'Like what, son?' my dad asked.

'Like my rubber ball and plastic bricks.'

My father looked confused. 'No, son. I haven't seen your plastic ball and rubber bricks. Or did you say rubber bands and plastic fish?'

I forced back my snigger. It's so typical of my father to become forgetful of what I say and repeat my words mixed up. My father was disengaged from communicating with me he could neither absorb what I said nor reply appropriately.

'Maybe you left them at the old house with your model aeroplane,' my father added. 'Anyway, son. Aren't you a bit too old to be playing with toys?'

I was glad he even noticed I had grown, but I felt too exhausted to even argue those items had definitely been in this new house only yesterday. I didn't realise my father had walked towards the bedroom door without taking my tray with him. He closed the door behind him.

I began to drift off when I heard a faint groaning noise from behind the walls began. It sounded exactly like the noise my mother had made when attempting to imitate the injured biker from the hospital. 'You must have waited for my father to leave,' I said aloud.

The wall said nothing back. I felt frustrated. If the wall insisted on speaking to me then I at least preferred it if it chose to do it in the daytime and when my parents were home, rather than when it was dark and I was home all alone.

I felt too weak to recommence the decorating of my bedroom; all I wanted to do is rest. Fortunately, my music player and phone were right where I had left them. Unfortunately, they needed charging.

I simply lay on my bed staring at the fist-sized hole in the wall. Seeing the gaping mouth of the wall gave me the creeps. Maybe that was it. Maybe the hole in the wall was the wall's mouth. I picked off a grape and threw it at the wall. It missed the hole. I threw another one. That one missed, too. I threw a third, and—bingo. Straight into the mouth of the wall. I knew it didn't make sense to throw perishables into a hard-to-reach place; the food would rot and would definitely encourage rats, or make my bedroom smell foul.

There was a split-second burping sound. Had my wall really just belched? Maybe the bump on my head was more severe than the doctors imagined. Only silence followed. I fell asleep for the rest of the night. 

To be continued. . .