The Bizarre Occasion of the Scratching in the Walls

It was a calm autumnal evening when it happened, rather than the storm-laden nights these events usually occur on. My dear friend Silas and I were sitting round the fire in his living room, myself lost in a book and he absorbed in his thoughts of which I am never privy to. All was completely silent. As silent as the grave. Until an unholy sound wrenched us from our activities.

There was a scratching coming from somewhere near us in the house.

Silas bolted upright in his armchair at the noise, his dark eyes darting in all directions.  

‘Smedley,’ he exclaimed – for it was my name. ‘Do you hear the scratching? Do you hear it?’

‘I do, by Jove!’ I cried, glad - or perhaps perturbed – to know it was not just a product of my own imagination. ‘What could it be, man?’

Silas, standing now, turned his aquiline nose to the ceiling at my query, as if he was on a theatre stage. ‘Any number of things,’ he said, looking away from me. ‘Something from my past, no doubt. And my past is murkier and more dangerous than the deepest end of the Great Grimpen Mire.’

‘Yes, you’ve said before, Silas. You know, for a man who apparently dislikes hearing about his past you do bring it up a lot.’ 

‘Ssh!’ He put his finger to his pursed lips to quieten me. I listened and realised the scratching sound was getting closer.

I leapt from my chair at the desk, unable to control the surge of pure terror within me. I suddenly felt light-headed and heavy, like I had swallowed a lump of coal.

‘What in God’s name is it, Silas?’                                                                                               

In one swift movement, my friend pressed himself against the wall nearest to him with all the energy and passion as if it was a long lost love he had finally been reunited with.

He spoke without moving his body, his voice a mere whisper. ‘It is coming from inside.’

Before I could utter a reply, Silas was positively bouncing and forth along the wall, his long, nut-brown hair wafting around him as he went, keeping his ear close and tapping the woodwork with his knuckles. All the while the scratching continued.

‘The sound comes from here,’ he said, still a whisper, pointing to a specific spot on the wall.

‘What does it matter?’ My heart was pounding hard in my chest and my moustache was getting moist through sweat. ‘We must flee from it!’

‘Not so quick, my friend,’ said he. Halting my leave, he bounded to the other side of the room to my desk, took a hammer from the draw and brought it back to the wall where he launched it into the wooden panels at the point he had noted.

The loud thumps of metal against mahogany immediately drowned out the sound of the scratching but in the second that the hammer was pulled away for the next swing, I could hear it still. It took only a few swings with the tool before a sufficient hole the size of two fists together had been made. And a face could be seen in the wall.

It was runt-like and bald with brittle chalky skin. It wore a rictus grin showing blackened teeth.

‘Oh, hello Roderick,’ said Silas. ‘I thought we agreed you could scrounge around in the walls looking for rats tomorrow night?’

‘No, sir,’ the man croaked. ‘We said today.’

‘Fair enough, carry on then.’ Silas smirked at my bewildered expression.

‘I could explain, my dear Smedley, but it would involve a mention of my past. And you know how I abhor talking about my past; it is more unknowable than the darkest moors of Yorkshire.’

‘Yes, all right, Silas.’ I grumbled and returned to my book.