Free The Man With No Face by John Yeoman Page B

tell you it doesn’t,” he went on. “You were only brave because you didn’t know about the little man with no face. You won’t be so brave next time.”

    We lay there, silently, in the dark bedroom. He was waiting for me to ask, and I was waiting for him to tell me.

    He cracked first. Sort of.
    “I suppose you want me to tell you about him?” he said, finally.
    “If you want,” I said, trying to fake a yawn and suppress the lump in my throat at the same time.

    “Well,” he said, “if you’re sure you can take it. The story is”-and here he dropped his voice to an eerie whisper-“that the cellar is haunted. The legend goes back to the Middle Ages …”
    Now I was pretty certain the Middle Ages came well before Victorian houses, but I didn’t interrupt. Despite myself, I wanted to hear the story.
    “…when-at various times-several servants were found dead in that cellar.”
    I licked my lips moist. “They fell down the steps?”
    “Worse,” said Colin, scarcely able to hide his enjoyment,
“much
worse. They all died of fright; in the dark. Their hair had turned white.”

    “But that was a long time ago,” I said, partly to reassure myself.
    “He’s still there, though, they say,” said Colin. “Only he sleeps all the time now. Except when someone’s down there without a light.”
    There was a short pause. “Don’t you want to know why he’s called ‘the little man with no face’?” he asked.

    Of course I wanted to know, desperately.
    “Well, you see,” he said, without waiting for an answer, “he’s got a perfectly smooth, round head-with no hair, or ears, or eyes. If he gets you he grabs hold of you by the wrist with his bony little fingers and runs your hand over his face. It’s just like feeling a warm, slightly tacky balloon, except that your fingers sink in a bit…”

    There was probably more, but I was under the bedclothes, unable to speak.
    Try as I might, I simply couldn’t make myself believe that Colin was inventing it all just to scare me. How I got to sleep I’ll never know.
    But what a sleep it was. It seemed one long, repeated nightmare with me down in the dark cellar, scrambling on all fours up the wooden steps. Except that the steps were so soft that my fingers kept sinking in and I couldn’t move forwardand a bony hand kept grabbing my ankle to pull me back and I couldn’t make any sound when I tried to scream.

Chapter Five

    The next day Aunt Carrie took us to the zoo. Luckily Colin didn’t bully me too much because there was plenty to see. But even though I checked that the key was turned in the cellar door before I went up to bed that night, I still had the same nightmares.
    The following day Colin quietly suggested another game of Cops and Robbers in the cellar.
    “We didn’t finish the last game, remember?” he said.
    I nodded. “OK by me,” I said. I’d managed to seem quite relaxed since he’d tried to scare me and I wasn’t going to let him score an easy victory now.
    “But no turning the light off,” I said. “I could have had a really bad accident when you played that stupid trick. And your dad’s going to stop us playing in the cellar if he thinks we’re doing anything dangerous.”

    At the mention of Uncle Geoff, Colin’s eyes narrowed (well, narrowed even more than usual). I could see that he didn’t want to risk annoying his dad, who could be quite stern when he wanted.

    “Of course not,” he said. “You don’t think I’d want to excite the little man with no face, do you? What do you take me for?”
    Almost as soon as I set foot on the steps (I’d allowed Colin to go first) there was a clap of thunder that made every bone in my body rattle. Colin turned and looked up at me. “You’renot scared, are you? Because, if you are, we can always play cards, you know.” For a second I was surprised at this strange concern for me. And then I noticed his pale cheeks and understood. The thunder, and probably his own ghost story,