Mr Mumbles. Barry Hutchison

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       Chapter Five A NEW FRIEND

      I remembered.

      Every line, every detail of the figure before me was…no, not the same. Familiar, but different. The Mr Mumbles of my childhood hadn’t been quite like this. He had been short and skinny with friendly, shining eyes and a gift for slapstick.

      His speech had always been impossible to understand, but he’d made up for it with his wide range of comedy pratfalls and skilful miming. He had been my funny little friend. My very own Charlie Chaplin.

      The thing standing before me now didn’t look funny at all.

      The clothes were the same – the overcoat with its high collar, the curve of the hat. Parts of his face looked vaguely like I remembered – the bushy eyebrows, the big ears – but others couldn’t have been more different.

      His once playful eyes were dark and sunken. He’d had jolly, rosy cheeks, but now they were pale and wrinkled, like old paper. Even in the dark I could make out the spidery, dark blue lines of veins creeping below the skin.

      Every detail was so lifelike. He was so real. Solid. And standing in the middle of my living room.

      I’m not sure, but I think even when I was young I kind of knew Mr Mumbles wasn’t real. Not really real, anyway. That’s not to say I couldn’t see him back then, but I suppose the way I saw him wasn’t the same. He was more like a ghost I could conjure up. A supernatural spirit dressed for stormy weather, invisible to everyone but me. My best friend.

      Not any more.

      Sparks of hatred flashed in the dark centres of those eyes. Above them, his bushy, caterpillar eyebrows pushed down, contorting what I could see of his forehead into a twisted frown. The scowl seemed to continue down to the tip of his hooked nose, flaring his nostrils out wide.

      And his lips…Oh, God, the lips! Mr Mumbles had always had problems with talking, but it had been a speech impediment, that was all. Now his whole mouth was disfigured.

      The lips were grotesque: thick, bloated, and sewn tightly together with grimy lengths of thread. Each stitch crossed over its neighbour, forming a series of little Xs from one side of his mouth to the other, sealing it shut. The holes the threads passed through were black and infected, the flesh rotting away from within.

       My God. What had happened to him?

      I should have been off and running, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his. When I was younger, he’d been a little taller than me, but not much. Now he towered above me, easily six and a half feet in height. Up till now, the solid weight of the baseball bat had been giving me comfort, but now it felt flimsy and light, like a child’s toy.

      Fighting this monster was not an option.

      Where before Mr Mumbles had been thin and spindly, he was now built like a bear. His densely packed frame strained the seams of his trailing overcoat. Hands the size of dinner plates clenched and unclenched into powerful fists.

      His breathing was unsteady and erratic. It whistled slightly as it came down through his nose. The wind howling in through the window made his coat swish against his knees as he held me in his gaze.

      The puckered skin around his lips stretched and shifted slightly as he spoke. The low, rumbling mumble was hard to make out, but I was sure I knew what he was saying. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard those words tonight.

       Time to die.

      I feigned a move towards the back door, then shot off in the opposite direction. The sofa’s wheels squeaked as I shoved it into Mr Mumbles’ path and sprinted for the front door. The lock turned easily this time and I hadn’t even heard Mr Mumbles make a move by the time I’d got the door open.

      Suddenly, an ice-cold grip grabbed my ankle, sending me sprawling on to the front doorstep. I yelped with pain as my forearms hit the edge of the raised stone, bruising them with twin bands of purple. The baseball bat went clattering away down the garden path. But that was the least of my worries.With his hand still tightly wrapped around my right leg, Mr Mumbles was dragging me back into the house.

      I lashed out in panic, my left leg kicking violently against the chill night air. Once or twice my foot found its target and thudded against some part of my attacker. He shrugged the blows off without a word. I’m not convinced he even noticed them.

      Before I knew it he was on me, his hands tight on my throat, his face almost touching mine. I could feel his weight trapping me, pinning me against the hard frosty path, smothering me. As a kid I’d been able to see him and hear him, but I’d never been able to smell him until now. His stench filled my nostrils; rancid and decaying, like months-old meat left rotting in the sun. I’d have choked on it if I hadn’t been choking already.

      My hands clawed the ground around me, searching for the baseball bat. They came back empty. Wherever the bat was, it was out of reach. I tried punching him, but he didn’t flinch. I heard a rattle at the back of his throat, and realised he was laughing. His demon gaze burned into me, eyes wide, blazing with a hatred like none I’d ever seen.

      His hands tightened around my windpipe. The world shimmered before my eyes, forcing me to close them. His hands tightened further still. His hands. So tight. No breath. Hands. Laughing. Choking. Choking. Choking.