Free Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror by Michael Bray Page A

the bedrooms and give him a fright. I
went downstairs to look for Steve, who was perched on the arm of a
tired old sofa in the living room, scribbling furiously into his
notebook. I felt a pang of guilt as I approached him.
    “ Steve,
come check out what I found upstairs. You have to see it to believe
it,” I said, sounding as excited as I could. Part of me hoped
he would see it coming, that he might sense the trick and refuse. But
as I said earlier, he and I had never had a problem, and since he had
no reason to distrust me, he followed. I felt sick as I climbed the
stairs, knowing what was coming, and that from then on poor Steve
would group me in with all the other people who picked on him and
made his life a living hell.
    It
makes me sad to write it down, and as I do, I can feel the tears
welling up in my tired old eyes. I need to finish though, the sound
in the walls is getting louder, and I suspect it won’t be long
now.
    I
walked down the upstairs hallway, Steve just behind me. I was hoping
he would see the funny side when it happened, but when it did, it
caught me by surprise too, because they came not out of the bedroom
at the end of the hallway as we had agreed, but out of the bathroom.
I remember it well. Snoddy wild-eyed, Denton grinning like some kind
of snarling animal. They carried a box between them and threw its
contents at Steve, screaming loudly as they did so. What happened
next took only seconds, but I recall it in horrific, slow detail.
    I
remember the contents of the box landing on Steve, and feeling
disgusted at the sight of those fat, pink, newborn rats as they hit
his chest and face. I remember Steve screaming and lurching back, too
far back, and slamming into the old, rotten banister rail, which
broke under his weight.
    I
remember how the look of joy on Snoddy and Denton’s faces
transformed into a look of sick horror as they realized what was
happening. I remember reaching out to Steve, trying to stop his fall,
but he was wild-eyed and frightened, his hands flailing as the baby
rats squealed in a freakish high register.
    I
remember Steve falling down the steps, rolling down on his back and
landing in a heap on the floor, and then I remember the rats.
    Streaming
from the downstairs walls like a thick, moving carpet, they charged
towards the distressed newborns in an effort to protect. I remember
meeting Steve’s gaze from the upper landing, or at least
imagine I do, and remember his betrayed, terrified expression as the
rats covered him, biting and tearing, smothering him until he was no
more than a screaming, thrashing mass of filthy black fur. I couldn’t
say how many there were. Hundreds? Thousands? It’s impossible
to say.
    We
could have saved him, but as we stared at one another there on the
upstairs landing in the gloomy half light, we were in unspoken
agreement to run. Down the steps, two at a time, and around the mass
of rats as they continued to defend the newborns. I’m pretty
sure Steve had stopped screaming by then. I remember seeing his
notepad, still perched on the arm of the sofa where just five minutes
earlier he had been minding his own business, gathering information
for his website.
    I
would like to say we went for help and came back to rescue Steve, who
suffered only minor injuries, and we all lived happily ever after.
But that would be a lie. We didn’t go back, and we didn’t
tell a soul about it. I feel sick about it even now, and curse myself
for being such a coward. The three of us never spoke much again after
that day. Perhaps through shared guilt, or shame, we drifted apart.
Steve was reported missing a few days later. A huge deal was made of
it in the news and the local press, and as the days passed, I was
unable handle the guilt. So I made an anonymous call to the police,
advising them to check out the old Fisherman house. They did, but
Steve wasn’t there. They found his notepad, but no sign of him,
or the rats by all accounts. I was tempted to go back there,