Mr Mumbles

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.