The thing under the blankets

The blankets resisted momentarily, then slipped back.  Long strands of something white stretched out between the blankets and the cocoon-like shape beneath them and then snapped, floating lazily in the air until they fell to the bed again.  Beneath the blankets was a mummified thing.

Jim let the blankets fall and leaned heavily on the cane.  He squeezed his lips shut, refusing to make a sound, and tried hard to slow his breathing, which, through his nose, sounded like a racehorse that had come in first.  He stepped backwards, and again, until he bumped up against the portrait, which put an arm around his waist.

Now he screamed, unable to keep it in any more and pulled away, slashing at the arm with the cane.  There was no strength in it and it fell limply back.  It was the deformed arm, the tentacular hand that had reached for him, and as he stared at it, the pinprick eyes in the swollen head moved jerkily from side to side, and the head began to turn as well.  Jim could see that whatever the thing was, it was pulling itself slowly out of the painting and into the room.

He made for the door and slammed it behind him.  He reached for the key, and then remembered that this door had no lock; the other door on the other side of the attic had the lock.  Looking around him he saw the hole that he’d come in by, and without hesitation he ran over to it, ducking down as the roof sloped down, and standing up again through the hole and pulling himself out on to the roof.  Without really thinking, he slid down the roof, half-hearing the clatter of more tiles coming loose and sliding down with him until he reached the eaves, and then his feet caught in the guttering and slowed his descent.  The guttering groaned, cast iron pulling against the stays that pinned it to the brickwork, but it held and he stopped moving.  He cast the cane over the side, and then followed it, clambering down the side of the house as he’d come up, using the broad window frames and sills, and the crumbling brickwork to provide hand- and foot-holds.  He jumped the last few feet, stumbled slightly, and picked the cane up again.  Then he ran out of the garden and across the street, where he paused for a moment and looked back.  Up on the roof something dark and writhing was silhouetted against the sky, and he whimpered as he ran back up into the village.

When he reached the first streetlamp he made himself stop and lean against it, getting his breath back and trying to make himself stop sobbing.  There were no tears, though his eyes felt dry and hot, and he looked back the way he’d come, dreading seeing the swollen, bloated man from the portrait lumbering up the road in pursuit.  But the road was empty, and at the end of the road the roof of the house was free from odd eruptions.  He watched it for ten minutes, and no-one appeared, and so he concluded that whatever had emerged from the portrait had stayed within the house.

Only then did he look down at the cane and wonder why he’d taken it with him.

William Black

The house had been abandoned for fifteen years.  The windows were boarded up, the door was locked and padlocked; someone had driven metal eyehooks the size of a hand into the doorframe and the door and padlocked them together.  Even the chimney had been blocked up; Jim had been on the roof and seen for himself.  While he was up there, crouching low to avoid being seen by anyone carelessly looking up at the skyline, he’d discovered that the roof tiles were loose.  A couple had slipped his feet beneath him, and when he fell, grabbing at the peak of the roof with his good hand, more still had slipped away.  He’d waited there, hanging on as he heard the tiles fall into the overgrown garden below and hoped that no-one else had heard them.  When, minutes later when his arm felt as though it was on fire, there were still no voices or footsteps below, he’d tucked his legs up, got his feet back underneath him and taken the weight off his arm.  Then, half-crouching, half-lying on the roof, he’d looked at the damage.  A hole into the attic looked back at him.

Peering over the edge of the roof he could see that the street was clear, which wasn’t that surprising; the sun was starting to set and no-one came down this end of the village much at night.  There wasn’t a need too; apart from the abandoned house there was a shed used for shearing sheep, some kind of old stone ring that children played around after school, and a dirt path that led out into the cow pasture and then disappeared.  Satisfied, he pulled more of the tiles loose, dropping them through into the attic so as to avoid any more noise that might be heard.  The house was abandoned, it wasn’t like anyone was going to complain that he was messing up the attic.  And this way, if anyone did come and find it later, it wouldn’t look like anyone had been trying to get in.

When the hole was big enough he slipped through; the attic was long and the roof was slanted on both sides so it wasn’t much of a drop.  He crouched, and waddled a little into the middle of the room where he could stand up properly, and looked around.

It was disappointing; there were some tea-chests that contained dust and dead spiders, and there were a couple of piles of newspapers bound with frayed cord that snapped limply when he touched it.  He moved around, his feet stirring up dust from the reddish carpet on the floor, and then realised that if anyone did come in here now they’d see that someone had been here.  He started dragging his feet, scuffing out the footprints so that hopefully it would look like a largish animal had done it.  Further in there was a rocking horse that creaked and squealed when he touched it, swaying about too many axes to be in good condition.  Against the end wall was a door with a key in the lock, and next to that a fireplace.  Some cast-iron tools were still propped up against it, and there was cold, grey, lacy ash in the grate as well.

He tried the door, and to his surprise found it locked.  He started to turn the key, and then paused and looked at it.  How could it be in the lock on this side if the door were locked?  He turned back, and looked around the attic again, unsure now of what he might find, and if he wanted to.

There was another door at the other end, this time without a keyhole.  He pushed it, and it swung open silently, revealing a rectangle of darkness beyond.  He felt beside the door out of habit and found a light-switch.  He depressed it, not expecting it to work, and jumped, startled, when two small lamps flickered several times, strobing yellow light across the room, and finally came on.  The light they gave was weak and a brownish yellow colour, casting everything in the room in sepia, but he quickly saw that the room had no windows so the light was unlikely to give him away.

The room was tiny, maybe ten feet square.  There was a bed pushed up against the far wall, tight in to the slope of the roof so that anyone sleeping in it couldn’t sit up without banging their head, and on the other wall, next to the door, was a full-length portrait of William Black.

Jim looked at it, seeing the little brass plaque at the bottom with the name, William Black engraved on it, and the years of his life, 1886-1938.  The man was ugly, swollen-faced with mottled skin and bulging eyes that were more white than iris.  Tiny little pinpricks of black were presumably his pupils.  He was dressed in a dark suit that seemed to be straining to contain his bulk, and he was standing but leaning on a cane.  The hand that gripped the cane was normal, if pudgy, but the other hand, laid across his stomach, was missing all but two fingers, and those fingers were fused together and looked almost tentacular.  Jim shivered, and looked down at his own bad hand; missing the littlest two fingers at the knuckles before the palm, and his thumb crooked and almost immobile.  They were different, but close enough to make him shiver.

Suddenly he realised that the cane in the picture was leaning against the frame of the picture.  He picked it up, discovering that it was surprisingly heavy; it felt like it would do damage to someone if they were hit with it.  It was slightly warm to the touch, and fit well in his hand.  He leaned his weight on it, and though the floorboard creaked a little, the cane was silent and stoic.

Then he looked over at the bed, and noticed for the first time that the blankets were mounded up slightly.  Suddenly nervous, he made himself breathe steadily, counting under his breath until he reached ten.  Then, his nerves still all ajangle, but his hand steady and his mind braced for what he might find, he pulled the blankets back.