Who's There&;#063;

So, you want to hear about Maggie Trent, I suppose? What is it with
folk these days - morbid curiosity? Or perhaps you're here merely to
mock me.
No matter; I'll not ask your motive. I shall assume you wish to know if
only to protect you and yours. Still, I should caution you first: you
may not wish to know the truth of Mrs. Trent's demise. So if you want
to rest easy come sundown, then now is the time to leave.....
I see. From the eager anticipation in your eyes, I gather you remain
keen to hear my tale. In which case, provide me with a decent pint of
bitter, so as to loosen the tongue and soothe jangling nerves, for it's
not a story I care to recall.....

*********

Tell me this: Have you ever lain awake at night, listening to the
hushed tones of midnight? When the sun is long since quenched by the
horizon and the only sound that of the soft whisper of your
breath?
You will confirm then, that at such a late hour, the mind can be
deceitful. Who can claim never to have heard a floorboard creak and
feared an intruder ascending the stairs with a grasped knife? Or
detected the scratching of something disturbingly close - perhaps a
rat, perhaps worse? Are these the figments of a weary mind on its
sleep-bound journey?

Not at all! For on many an occasion, I have lain awake and heard them
myself.

As a frightened child, my mother would put her soft palm to my forehead
and explain, "Do not be afraid. Our house is stretching and yawning
just like you, ready for bed." Like most children, I would rest easier
at such comforting words. But with the door closed to pitch darkness
and her voice dispersed into the night, then the tap-tapping would
return and with it my fear.
As I grew, I learned that these sounds were merely the creaking and
settling of timber and wall. It was science, so I was told. And no
doubt much of this midnight percussion can be attributed so.
Yet despite knowing this, who can put hand to heart and declare never
to have had cause to tiptoe downstairs at an ungodly hour, a makeshift
weapon prepared for the supposed intruder? Who can deny a shiver at
listening, enveloped in bedclothes, to a scraping or clawing that is
too deliberate, too calculated, too.....alive?
We may believe we can see, feel or even smell our phantom intruder, yet
do we find him? Rarely so. Instead we surrender to sleep, convincing
ourselves that the curious sound was just the wind; was never
there.
So, do you consider yourself safe in your bed? Perhaps you have windows
that are difficult to prise and a sturdy door that is secured at night?
Then surely neither man nor beast can enter? One might suppose that
Maggie Trent was similarly untroubled the night she died, what with
living in an old farmhouse. Doors of solid oak and windows built to
keep out the cold northerlies, protection enough! Yet that is where the
peril lies - in complacency!
You see, our conceited world believes that science knows all. Well I
tell you, it does not! There are still elements hidden from our
understanding: the sunless depths of the ocean, the untold mysteries of
the subterranean - what secrets lie there, I wonder?
So imagine if there was a danger that lurked beneath our feet,
underground. Then, would our domestic defences guard us? Can we lock a
door at night to protect us from what lies beneath? Of course not, for
how do we protect ourselves from the unknown and the unaccepted?
And what does this have to do with poor Maggie Trent, you ask? Well,
have patience, for we are coming to that! For I see you already regard
me as a foolish old man with a belly full of beer. Yet I am sober
enough, and it is in your interest that I explain.....

*********

Let us hark back to the events of last summer, to August nineteenth to
be precise. If you have a keen memory, you may remember that the day
was sultry, during a spell of unusually hot and dry weather. The air
was thick and syrupy and threatening thunder after almost three
rainless months. Indeed, the arid conditions had much to do with what
occurred that night. Had the rain come as expected, then Maggie Trent
would likely be here today.
Maggie herself had been ill with a fever for a week or more, and no-one
from the village except Dr. Cooper had seen her during that time. Of
course, living alone as a widow on an isolated farm, you wouldn't
expect regular callers. According to the doctor, she was on her way to
a full recovery. Yet the next morning, she was stone dead.
You have yourself a first-hand account of what happened, because it was
I that discovered Maggie the morning of her death. Despite my
retirement, I still occasionally do the odd job or two for the locals,
see? Passing by Maggie's farmhouse, I knocked the door to see if she
was back on her feet and needing a hand.
No-one answered, and indeed there had been some concern in the village
that she had been quite ill and bed-ridden for days. I called up to the
bedroom window but there was no reply. Knowing that she was ill and
fearing she was in difficulty, I took a chance and broke a
window.
Heading straight up the stairs, I found Maggie soon enough. I could
plainly see from the hallway that she was still taken to her bed. I
remember cursing myself for being so foolish: perhaps she was still so
weary that she had slept 'til noon. But when my eyes focused better, I
saw something that froze me where I stood, despite the day's sweltering
heat.
At first, I thought I had intruded upon Maggie's own mother, because I
could see a most withered face on the pillow; that of an elderly woman.
Yet, crossing the room to her bed, I became increasingly certain that
it was Maggie herself, though her face was indeed withered. Shrivelled
is probably a more accurate word.
I recall, as a child, seeing pictures of an Egyptian mummy; there was a
remarkable similarity. Her eyes were sunken into her skull and puckered
like prunes; skin leathered and stretched tight across her face. And,
as I pulled back the bedclothes, her bare arms and feet revealed her
entire body in similar condition. There she was, dry as a biscuit,
pyjamas hanging loose across her skeleton. It was something from a
horror book, except it was Maggie's fate, and mine to discover her.
Those soulless eyes, gazing up at the ceiling, will haunt me 'til I
die.
It took me half an hour to recover my senses and call for help. Dr.
Cooper arrived soon after with Emily Mills, an old friend of Maggie's
who demanded to see the corpse despite my objections.
I've seen many dead folk, but it was obvious to myself and Dr. Cooper
that Maggie's death was not caused by any known disease or ailment.
Still, I might have had nothing much to tell had it not been for old
Emily. On seeing Maggie, her frail hands flew to her face and she
gasped. I could see recognition in her eyes. It was only later, when
the good doctor had left, that I coaxed an explanation out of
her.
Emily is ninety years old and well-respected, and has seen a great deal
of mystery in her lifetime. She told me stories that had been passed
down through generations, stories of a creature from under the ground -
a rarity that humankind has seldom encountered. A creature she knew had
caused Maggie's demise, for she recognised the symptoms.
These creatures are rarely witnessed due to their nocturnal habits and
sharp senses, able to detect even the scuttle of a spider from twenty
feet or more. You could not hope to find one alive, for it would be
long gone at the merest hint of danger.
And there is another reason for their midnight activities, other than
the cloak of darkness it offers them. Light is loathsome to them: its
touch is like scalding water to their skin. To rise above the surface
is perilous. So what reason could there possibly be to venture above
ground?
The answer? Why, to feed a thirst, but only under the rarest
circumstances! In our moist climate, their needs are satisfied by the
dank earth and all it contains. However, in unusual weather as
transpired last summer, when the sun blisters the earth and the rain
fails, they come to the surface in search of sustenance. And perhaps by
misfortune alone, they have discovered the living fluids that course
through our very selves, and acquired a taste for them. Indeed, in such
times, they will deliberately seek our homes. Their membranous and
boneless bodies, no larger than a mouse, can slither and slip through
even the slightest crack.
Once inside, they'll seek a hiding place, knowing that nearby is a
succulent meal for the cautious hunter. If you have hollow walls,
beware! They will find them and hide within. If not they will lurk
under floorboards or inside cupboards, in cellars or roof spaces. They
are resourceful beasts.
Ordinarily, a solitary intruder, a night-time visitor, will sip and
then leave well alone. After all, these are not demons, but simply
God's creatures, feeding upon us in desperation. Had Maggie not been so
ill-fated, she'd have woken the next morning, merely exhausted and
anaemic from a little blood loss. Regrettably, circumstances combined
to seal her fate. The particularly hot weather and the reclusion of the
farm house meant that, with no other house for a mile, she became the
target for a thirsty horde. They supped every drop of lifeblood from
poor Maggie Trent.....

Imagine, then, the fateful night of the nineteenth. Maggie is lying
still in her bed in hope that slumber will come, releasing her with
renewed vigour come the morning. Yet, from twenty feet below her, she
is being stalked. Their bodies brittle from lack of moisture, they are
already weaving through the foundations of the house and into the
walls. Once inside, like groping fingers, they detect her heat and
search her out.
Maggie, lying still, listens to the creaking-cracking of a hollow wall
as they pick their way towards her. Like you and I, her eyes blink wide
at the unsettling sound and she wonders, is somebody there? She rises
to investigate. Sensing her, the creatures cease their approach and
wait.....until, finding nothing, she returns to bed. Then the
utterances start again, the sound of aching floorboards tip-toed across
by a blind menace.
She closes her eyes, assuring herself that it is merely the contraction
of timbers after another sultry day. And as soon as she sleeps, they
slink through floorboards and slither unseen to envelop her with tiny,
searching needles, sipping blood and sampling fluid.....until, swollen
as ticks on a dog, they slip into the night with their stolen
morsels.....

And so you know the truth of how they took old Maggie.

I wonder whether I should have recounted my tale at all, for it does
not get any easier in the telling and haunts me even now. Still,
whether it serves as a warning or you consider it nonsense to frighten
children with, so be it. But the next time you open eyes wide at a
scraping or scratching that raises the hair on your neck - or wake
after a haunted sleep, wearier than when you climbed under the covers -
or find a bite mark come morning that you blame on the bed bugs - you
may wish to weigh my words more carefully.
That is my tale, and you may make of it what you will, for I have
supped my pint and I will be making my way home to bed, and with
haste.

I bid you goodnight, Sir.