Screaming? Laughter? Something. He could not be sure. A noise, on the periphery of his senses. It woke him. Startled him. Perhaps he had imagined it. Perhaps not. Either way, it scared him. He lay, blanket stretched up to his nose, eyes wide open. The dark was a solid thing. Like black concrete. Like he was at the bottom of a deep hole. Like he was in a tomb, locked away, where the dead slept. He was eight years old. In the depths of the night, his imagination dredged up things monstrous and fearful.
He kept perfectly still. He thought, if he moved, then he would be noticed, and the darkness would stir, and something terrible might morph from the shadows. A sound filled his head – his heartbeat. He strained to listen.
Another sound. From downstairs. The kitchen. A man’s voice. Deep and rumbling. Like thunder. Like the worst storm. Shouting something, the words unclear. But the tone behind the words was clear enough. He knew anger when he heard it. This was worse than anger. This was… the noise a monster might make, from the back of a cave, or from the corner of a lightless cellar. A wicked noise, he thought. It scared him more than the darkness. He jerked round, fumbling for the bedside lamp, found the switch. Suddenly, the room was bathed in soft light. Familiar images sprang into being. An armchair, and on it, sitting lopsided, a large stuffed Mickey Mouse, smiling his smile. There, the dressing table, upon which, standing in a neat line, Star Wars figures. The tall single wardrobe. In a corner, a big Scalextric box.
He sat up, remained still. He realised he was holding his breath. He exhaled, quiet as a whisper. Listening.
Now, other noises. Normal noises. The faint creak and groan of an old house in the knuckle of winter. A breeze causing the trees outside to sway and leaves to rustle.
And then… A sound he recognised, but out of place. His breath caught. His heart pulsed. With exquisite care, he pulled back the covers, swivelled round, placed his feet on the carpet. The air was freezing cold. He shivered. His dressing gown hung from the wardrobe door. He went over, creeping on his toes, shuffled it on, and stood, motionless, facing the drawn curtains of his bedroom window.
He waited. Two seconds. Then it came again. He gasped. The sound was distinctive. He had heard it a thousand times – the gate at the back garden being pulled open. It was stiff, and sagged on its hinges, the bottom scraping on the flagstones, requiring effort to shift.
He went over. He opened the curtains. The sky was clear, unobscured by cloud, filled with a million stars. The moon shimmered, round and silver-grey. The back gate opened to a narrow lane. A single lamp provided illumination, casting a pale-yellow glow.
He looked down. There! A figure, its back to him. Wearing a long black coat. A sliver of darkness. A shadow in the shadows. Hunched forward, both hands on the latch. Tugging. With every tug, the gate scraped open another few inches. The figure stopped, became still. Another two seconds. It straightened, and with deliberation, turned, and looked up.
A face, bone-white. A man’s face. Their eyes met. Eyes black as sockets. The man raised an arm, pointed. His lips quivered into a smile, revealing teeth like tiny pearls. The words he spoke were soft and clear.
“I see you.”
The man remained motionless. He stood, in that strange way, pointing. Then, in a swirl of movement, he turned, grasped the gate, wrenched it open, and disappeared out into the lane and away. Like a phantom.
He stood at the window. His breath had steamed the glass up. His mouth was dry. His body trembled. He stepped away. The curtains fell back, hiding the moon and the stars and the frosty trees. He had seen a man in the back garden. Coming from the house, he assumed. Where else? He also assumed it was the man’s raised voice he had heard, from the kitchen downstairs.
He made his way to the bedroom door. The fear he felt for himself, suddenly, was eclipsed by the fear he felt for someone else.
His mother.
He opened the door, went out onto the top landing. Silence. He made his slow, careful way down the stairs. One step, two steps. On his tiptoes. The staircase creaked. He knew the creaks by heart. He gripped the banister. He got to the bottom. Before him, a short hall. Beyond, the kitchen. He got to the kitchen door, opened it.
And from that moment, his world changed.