Mr Mumbles. Barry Hutchison

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СКАЧАТЬ were blocked. There was no way out of the house. I was trapped!

      The steady knocking on the back door was driving me crazy. It might have had something to do with the shape of the kitchen, or the number of wooden cabinets mounted on the walls, but the knocking seemed to echo more in here, making the sound even louder.

      I couldn’t stand listening to it for another second. Stopping only to shove the table up against the chair for extra support, I left the kitchen and pulled the door closed behind me. Maybe the door blocked out the sound, or perhaps the knocking stopped right at that second. Either way I couldn’t hear it any more.

      Back in the living room, I risked a glance at the front door. The silhouette no longer filled the little window. From here the way looked clear, but for all I knew whoever was doing this was standing just outside, waiting to grab me as soon as I stepped out into the night. That was a chance I wasn’t about to take.

      In the gloom, my hands searched the sideboard for the phone. This was too big to handle on my own now. I’d call Mum. Or the police. The army, maybe. Anyone who could help me. Please, I thought. Someone help me!

      The handset wasn’t in its cradle. Stupid portable phone, I cursed, looking around for any sign of the slim silver telephone. My eyes proved almost useless in the dim light, and I was forced to carry out a fingertip search of the couch, the coffee table, and every other likely hiding place.

      Before I could even properly begin searching, a sharp rap of knuckles sounded on the living-room window. Frantically I hunted for the handset, too terrified to look towards the source of the sound. I was babbling incoherently, tears staining my cheeks, barely able to think. I found myself searching the same places over and over again; moving the same cushions, lifting the same pieces of scrunched and torn wrapping paper. Where was it?!

      Another bolt of lightning tore the sky, briefly freeze-framing everything in the room. Through the window, the electric-blue light cast a long, looming shadow on the wall across from the window.

      The shadow of a man in a wide-brimmed hat.

      In the flash I spotted the phone sitting on top of the TV. I’d seen it in the dark, but assumed it was the remote control. A vague memory of Nan trying to switch on the telly with it earlier popped into my head, before being pushed back down again by sheer, choking terror.

      Mum always forgot to put the handset back on charge and the little battery symbol was blinking at me in a way that seemed far too cheerful, given the circumstances. ‘Please,’ I begged it. ‘Enough for one call!’

      It was nearly ten miles to the care home. The police station would be much closer. If I was lucky there’d be someone at the local one, otherwise they’d have to send someone from town. Why did I have to live in such a backwater?

      Fingers shaking, eyes blurred with tears, I stabbed three nines on the keypad and held the receiver to my ear.

      Nothing happened. I pulled the phone away and peered at the little LED display. The battery was still flashing, but it was hanging in there. The number was right, but it wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working?

      Trying to ignore the sound of the knocking on the window, I pressed the cancel button and redialled the number.

      ‘Come on,’ I hissed, as I waited for something to happen. ‘Come on, come on, come on!’

      After what seemed like an eternity, I heard the ringing tone I’d been waiting for. Yes! In just a few seconds the line gave a faint click as someone answered.

      ‘Help me,’ I begged, not even waiting for the emergency operator to speak. ‘I need the police, there’s someone here. They’re trying to get into my house! Please, come quick!’

      An empty hiss down the line was the only reply.

      ‘Hello?’ I said into the soft static. For a moment I could hear my own voice drift off into the chasm of silence on the other end of the phone. Another failed connection? I’d have to hang up and dial again.

      Before I could end the call, a low moan reached my ear, breaking up and distorting as it travelled down the telephone line.

      ‘H-hello?’ I said again. My voice echoed back to me, and I could hear my own fear.

      Further moans and groans crackled from the earpiece, low and menacing, but with some urgency in their tinny tones. As I listened, I realised the sounds weren’t just random groaning at all. If I concentrated I could almost make out what sounded like words. Broken words.

      Mumbled words.

      I concentrated harder still on the distorted, indistinct voice. And then, suddenly, the sounds made sense. I understood them. Every word.

       Time to die.

      I let the handset slip from my fingers. The plastic back flew off as it bounced on the carpet, letting the tired battery ping free. A low mumbling repeated over and over in my head – time to die, time to die, time to die…

      I jumped as the CD player suddenly sprung into life. The electricity was off, yet somehow the orange LED display on front of the machine had blinked on. Hypnotised, I watched the track number display count slowly upwards. One. Two. Three. It made it all the way to track eight, then stopped.

      For a moment there was nothing but the faint whirr of the disk spinning, then the music began, loud enough to shake the walls. I threw my hands over my ears to protect my eardrums as Nan’s Christmas hits CD kicked in.

       You’d better watch out,

       You’d better not cry,

       You’d better not pout,

       I’m telling you why,

       Santa Claus is comin’ to town.

      My finger flew to the power button. I pressed it once, but the music played on, drowning out all other noise. Again and again I stabbed my finger against the controls, but the machine didn’t respond to any of them.

      Reaching down behind the player, I gave a short, sharp yank on the power cable. It would have to shut up after that.

      But it didn’t.

       He sees you when you’re sleeping,

       He knows when you’re awake…

      My whole body shook with shock. This couldn’t be happening. This was impossible.

      Frantic with fear, I brought the baseball bat down hard on the CD player. The plastic casing gave a crack, the disk let out a deafening screech, and then silence returned to the living room.

      I waited, bat raised, eyes fixed on the stereo. The storm howled outside, but inside all was quiet. Cautiously, I lowered the bat, turned away, and got back to trying to think of a way out of this mess.

      Click. Over my shoulder, I heard the display on the CD player blink into life once again. Track eight kicked back in straight away. This time, though, it seemed stuck in an endless repetitive loop.

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