Authors: Michael Bray
Last chans.
Stoppe now.
The word now was double underlined, and I glared into the gloom, looking for any signs of them watching me, but all was silent. Hell, even the scratching in the walls had stopped. The silence was total as I sat there staring at those four words and clutching the three-quarters empty vodka bottle hard enough to turn my knuckles white. The state of my sanity again came into scrutiny as I tried to decide if I was seeing things or if these little people really were coexisting in my home when I remembered the cameras. Lurching out of the chair, I went to the one in the corner first, desperate to check it. Surely whatever had written those words would have been captured on film, and I could, at least, answer the nagging doubt over my state of mind, or at least that would have been the plan. I snatched the camera off the tripod and found that it had been switched off. There was no sane reason for that to happen, but I thought perhaps the battery had died. I powered the camera up, noting that as I suspected, there was almost a three quarter charge remaining. Tossing the useless gadget on the sofa, I hurried to the kitchen, shoving the door open to see if the other device had suffered the same fate.
If there had been any doubts about low batteries of technical gremlins with the first camcorder, there were none with the second. Its remains lay on the kitchen floor, shattered fragments of green circuit board and copper wire strewn around it. With hands that shook either from the booze or through fear, I picked up the remains of the camera. I could see the markings on the outside like somebody had hacked at the casing with a pair of scissors (or perhaps a nail file knife) and had done a damn good job of destroying the innards of it too. I thought my legs were going to give way, but they somehow carried me back to my beloved sofa, where I crashed down and lit a cigarette. I could hear the need for alcohol gnawing at my gut, and was equally aware that the small amount that I had left wasn’t going to cut it. I needed to talk to someone, to tell them what was happening. Hell, maybe I even wanted to ask for help. I know I shouldn’t have done it, especially as I was still half drunk, but I called Hilary. It was a mistake, and part of me knew it when I dialled her number, but my booze-ravaged mind didn’t care. I slurred at her, first telling her how afraid I was of the people in the walls, then turning angry and blaming her for leaving me and making me feel the way I did. Another voice came on the line then, crisp and authoritative. The elusive Ted. He told me never to call again, and that if I did, he would call the police. I tried to think of a witty retort, something sarcastic maybe about my adulterous wife, but he had already hung up the phone and left me there with a dial tone in my ear. It was then that I had the idea that would bring me full circle as to the reason why I’m sitting here and writing this now. I decided that if I couldn’t catch them on camera, then I would have to literally catch one and find out what they wanted. It seemed like a perfectly rational idea at the time.
Good God how wrong I was.
I picked up a dozen or so mousetraps (yes, and a couple more bottles of my beloved sour mash whisky before you ask) and set about putting my plan into action. The guy at the store tried to offer me those humane ones, telling me they were the better option. How could I tell him that my traps were for little people who live in the walls, and would be intelligent enough to escape? Of course, there was no way I could tell him that, so I plumped for some of the old school wooden ones with the metal snaps designed to kill.
Jesus, I just realised that this was only the day before yesterday. It almost seems like another lifetime. Anyhow, I better hurry up and finish this. I can almost imagine that I can hear the police sirens coming closer.
So, back to the mousetraps.
I put them in all the places I would expect mousetraps to go. In the corners of the rooms, in the cupboards themselves and in the kitchen where I had heard most of the scratching. I wasn’t even sure it would work, but I was desperate enough to try. I set my traps and sat on the sofa, intending to wait and watch, but the liquid stuff was calling me and I started on the first bottle, promising that I would only drink half and save the rest for later. As always, my willpower deserted me, and I passed out after draining the entire bottle.
I dreamed of strange things. I dreamed of Hillary and the faceless Ted laughing at me as swarms of tiny people streamed from the walls and climbed up me, forcing themselves into my mouth, forcing themselves down my throat and attacking me from the inside out, the pain agonizing as Hillary and her faceless new lover laughed and whooped and danced.
I was woken by the snap of a mousetrap.
Even though I was more than a little worse for wear because of the alcohol I had poured down my neck and the disturbing remnants of the nightmare, I staggered to the kitchen, pushing the swing door open, desperate to see what I had caught. The two of them froze as they looked at me. One of them was injured, its foot severed by the mousetrap. His colleague had him under the arms and was dragging him towards the open kitchen cupboard, leaving a tiny trail of blood behind from its wounded leg. Behind, I could see more of them, huddled in the darkness of the cupboard as they watched the rescue take place. Even in the gloom, I could see them glaring at me. I grabbed the first thing I could see - the coffee cup that Hilary bought me for my birthday - the one that said coffee addict, with a huge arrow pointing up towards the drinker. I threw it overarm, grunting with rage. The cup shattered against the cupboard door, showering the miniature people in shards of broken ceramic, which to them must have looked like immense boulders. They flinched but didn’t deviate, continuing to drag their wounded colleague towards the safety of the cupboard. Two more came out to help, these armed with weapons - the old kitchen scissors that had been lost some time before, the other with what looked to be the business end of a corkscrew. Their faces were painted with red war paint stripes, and as they dragged their wounded compatriot to safety, they paused to glare at me from across the room, their tiny faces twisted into hateful grimaces. With that, the cupboard door closed and I could hear the scratching in the walls as they moved around back there. Something happened then. Maybe it was rage, maybe it was fear. Probably, it was a combination of the two. All I knew is that I wanted them out of the house, out of my damn walls. I jogged across to where I had last seen them, the tiny blood trail leading from mousetrap the only evidence that they were ever there, and yanked open the cupboard door, spilling pans and dishes all over the floor as I searched for them. All I could hear was that incessant scratching. It felt like they were mocking me, laughing at me, just like Hilary. Just like Ted. The hammer had been in the toolbox which I had scooped out of the cupboard onto the floor, spilling the contents. The business end was large and sturdy, the kind of weapon that could do serious damage, especially to action figure sized home invaders. I snatched it up, stumbled to the worktop and set it down, then with shaking hands, ripped open the top on the bottle of Jack Daniels that I had bought and gulped a third of it down in one, wincing as it burned my throat.
Haha! Come on then Trenton, stop being such a pussy! Let’s find these little shits!
My inner voice seemed to like the booze just as much as I did, and with another hefty swig of the good stuff for courage, I scooped up the hammer and swung it at the wall as hard as I could, screaming in both rage and defiance as I did it.
Plasterboard exploded, wood shattered.
Damn it felt good.
I cackled and swung the hammer again, revelling in another explosion of wood and plaster dust. I pulled at the hole, ignoring the cuts to my hands as I peered into the cavity. I couldn’t see them in there, but could still hear them, louder now scurrying through the walls. By then, I wasn’t about to let them escape me. I took the hammer to the wall again, chasing those scratching sounds around the house. By the time I had finished, I could barely move my arm, and my hair and clothes were covered in plaster dust and flecks of wood. The house looked like a warzone.
I didn’t see a single one of the little people.
Not one.
I could still hear them, though, and somehow that was worse because it felt like they were mocking me. As was my way when faced with something I don’t want to deal with, I turned back to the bottle, crashed out on the sofa and drank myself into oblivion.
It was only half an hour ago that I woke up from that, and as I write my head is still fuzzy, although I’m pretty sober now after what happened. God knows, I would kill for another drink now (the irony. Ha!). I really feel like I need one. Anyhow, no time to get ahead of myself. The sirens that I imagined I could hear earlier are definitely coming, and not a moment too soon, as the little guys have started to scratch around again in the walls. I better hurry up and finish this.
It was pain that woke me from my alcohol induced sleep. A tingling sharpness in my wrist. Headache thundered in my skull, and I forced my eyes open and looked down at my arm, which was hanging over the edge of the sofa.
There were two of them sitting there. One of them I’m almost certain was the one who had glared at me from the cupboard door as he had helped his wounded kin from the mousetrap. The other was ignoring me, tiny white teeth gritted in determination. They were holding a single blade from a pair of kitchen scissors and were sawing away at my wrist with it as if it were the world’s biggest redwood. Blood was already flowing, and I screamed out and threw my arm in the air, the two little people launching across the room like rag dolls. Although my wrist was bleeding pretty badly, I was lucky to have woken up before they did any serious damage. It was only then that my overloaded brain realised what had been happening.
The little people had been trying to kill me.
I expected the idea of that to make me afraid, but instead, it was anger that surged through me, and I snatched up the hammer from the seat cushion beside me. The noise in the walls was deafening, a scratching mass of scurrying movement all around. It sounded like an army back there, and I was their primary target.
Again, it just dawned on me that I should have left, just got the hell out of there, but I inherited my father’s stubborn streak, and - with another swig of whiskey to steady my nerves - I readied my attack.
Most of the noise was coming from the kitchen. Subtle scratches, stealthy thuds. That seemed to be where they were most active, and if mousetraps didn’t work, then maybe a more direct approach would. Tightening my grip on the hammer, I charged across the room, kicking the door open and swinging the weapon with every ounce of strength I could muster I…
There was no way I could stop myself. I need to make that clear right now. Besides, how could I know she would be there?
I saw Hilary a split second before the hammer made contact with her forehead, her eyes wide and frightened, her mouth open in surprise as her wild-eyed, plaster dust covered husband came at her. The sound was a wet crunch as her skull bowed inwards, the tray of toast and coffee that she was carrying crashing to the floor in a symphony of spilled liquid and broken crockery. She didn’t scream, I don’t think she had time. But don’t worry, I screamed enough for both of us. There was so much blood. I tossed the hammer aside, watching as it left a bloody streak behind where it slid to a halt by the wall, reminding me of the one left by the little persons severed foot. I cradled her head, and although I prayed that she would be okay, I knew just by looking that she was gone. Her eyes were glassy and wide, and I knew just by looking that she was gone. Blood ran from her nostrils and ears, and the top of her head was misshaped, a concave depression which quickly filled with blood. At some point, my screams turned into sobs, and I started screaming for help, hoping that someone would come and tell me what to do.
That was when I saw them. The little people.
They were everywhere. Standing on the worktops, peering out of the cupboards. I even saw the one that I had caught in the mousetrap, standing on makeshift crutches with his tiny stump bandaged. There were more of them than I could have ever imagined. The two that had been hacking at my arm walked defiantly past where I knelt on the kitchen floor, my trousers and arms drenched with Hilary’s blood. They looked at me as they passed, tiny faces glaring and smug. They knew they had beaten me, they knew I was broken and wouldn’t retaliate. I watched as they disappeared back into the walls, squeezing through gaps in the worktops, others through the holes in the walls that I had made with the hammer. The rest through the cupboards. The scratching as they made their way deeper into the spaces between the walls was very loud, and one I knew I would never forget. Revenge was no longer an option. I didn’t care anymore. I don’t care anymore.
And that, I think brings us pretty much up to date. The scratchers are still moving around in the walls, and although I have closed the kitchen door I know Hilary is there. I didn’t think I loved her anymore, but knowing what I have done, knowing that she will no longer exist in the world feels me with a guilt and sadness for which I know I can find no words to be able to ever accurately explain. The fact that she came back to help me despite everything tells me that maybe she did still love me after all. But now she will never love anyone ever again. The Scratchers saw to that.
I also know that the police won’t believe me and that in all likelihood, I will spend the rest of my days in some kind of institution as doctors prod and poke me and try to convince me that what I saw wasn’t real. But I know it was. Despite the breakdown and the alcohol and everything else, I know those little people are in the walls. And I know this is all their fault.