Deluge
SCRSCCCCHHH!
The crash woke Fuller with a start.
Yes, the sound of water has often been described as relaxing; a natural music that soothes as it winds its way through our rivers and streams. But there is more to the orchestra than the delicate strings. There is the thundering percussion of waterfalls, the constant churn of the coastal tide and the most British of all weather – rain. And it was this downpour, arriving swiftly and with no introduction, that shook Fuller awake and made him sit upright in bed, gasping for breaths that were reluctant to come.
The sudden shock subsiding, the lash of the rain came again and this time – now wide awake – Fuller was of function enough to ascertain it was the start of this storm that had woken him so abruptly.
And so the panic started to dissolve away from his bones.
A rhythm had now begun to take over the precipitation, the sparkle and crackle of the rain on Fuller’s window whipped in and out by the stiffening autumn breeze and lending a feeling that the whole outside world was catching its breath in much the same way as he was himself.
And yet, still, Fuller found it a comfort. There was much to be said for the now regular sworls of sound. They were a reassurance, a lullaby and the gateway to more sleep, more rest, more…
SCHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
Fuller was shaken awake by the noise once more.
This time, he found himself in the cold, clammy embrace of a sweat, his eyes blurrily opening as the crash of rain grazed the windows once more. The wind was getting wilder, the rain more ragged, the world more breathless than before, panting as if it had been discovered by an unseen pursuer.
But there was another noise. Subtle, but distinct.
What was it?
A scratch?
A creak?
The house was old of course – much older than Fuller himself – and had something of a mind of its own, especially during those capricious changes in the season, from inclemency to spots of brightness in only a few hours.
Could it be the floorboards, sighing to themselves as the atmosphere around them shifted?
Fuller knew this was the most likely explanation. But then there was that itch, that niggle lurking in the shadows behind his thoughts. Those words ‘what if?’ began to circle his head. And he knew he wouldn’t be able to rest again until the fire of his thoughts had been quenched out of existence.
And so he pushed the quilt down, kicking the last layer off the end of the bed and swinging his legs round to the floor. Fuller’s feet felt instinctively for the slippers he had neatly placed on the rug just a few hours prior, and he lent forward on one elbow, his fingers searching for the bedside light.
As an orange glow spread out over the room, Fuller creaked up on to his feet, and immediately noticed just how much the temperature had dropped since he had retired for the night. There was a chill in the air and his skin bristled as he tried and failed to stifle his instinct to shiver.
Opening the door onto the landing, the light from his room splintered and poured through every gap, adding a broken landscape of shadows to every wall.
Fuller peered out, around the door frame. The landing stretched out into the darkness, with fingers of light stretching forward toward the doorway - firmly closed - at the end of the passage.
His eyes darted from one illuminated corner to the next. Each glance serving a sliver more relief to his heart, as everything was as expected and nothing was out of place.
That was until the light glimmered and glistened on something halfway down the hall.
It was small, maybe six inches by three, but definite, precise and most certainly out of place.
A wrinkle of cold sweat crossed Fuller’s brow.
But even before he knew what he was doing, he found himself starting towards it, his natural proclivity for understanding driving him before his heart had the notion to stop him in his tracks.
Bending down, he could see that it appeared to be a small puddle, almost rectangular in shape.
He instinctively looked up, his eyes peering at the ceiling above to see if there any sign of ingress from the storm outside. Nothing. The ceiling was uniform in colour and there were no blooms or blemishes caused by a leaky pipe or loose shingle.
Glancing back down to the water, Fuller could see it was neat and precise in a way that didn’t imply a leak but, seeing as that was surely the only available explanation and given the darkness and growing storm, he would investigate properly in the morning, find the point of ingress and resolve the issue before damp set into the frame and fabric of his home.
He shuddered again, although he wasn’t sure why and chastised himself under his breath, before giving voice to his plans:
“Damn it all, the morning… this can wait until the morning.”
Fuller stepped back, giving the water a sharp backward glance as he retreated back to his room and reintroduced himself to the comfort of his bed. He turned out the light, laid back down and closed his eyes.
However, sleep was not forthcoming this time.
Relentless, the rain continued to pound against the window and Fuller’s body stiffened to every sound that crept above the incessant background noise.
Each creak sent a shiver through his skin. Each wail of the storm outside pricking his steadfastness, driving him closer to running from his room, from his home, into the night and over to any of his friends across town and then…
CRSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHKKKKKKK!
The noise was too much. Fuller leapt up out of bed, turning on his lamp and starting out through the door and into the corridor beyond.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the twilight once more, his eyes darted around the space ahead of him. Instinctively, his eyes sought out the space where the puddle had been before and there it remained unchanged, except, what was that? Another glistening patch beyond it. And another reaching further back still. A steady set of small puddles reaching out to the door at the end of the corridor.
But the door was not closed as it had been before. In fact, the doorway yawned wide, the room drowning in the deep darkness beyond. And in there, at the heart of the inky black, there was a shape. A moving shape, the size of a child, unfolding from the shadows, deliberately and precisely.
Instinctively, Fuller called out. It was more a guttural noise than actual words but the effect was the same.
The shape stopped moving momentarily and then took a step forward. Fuller’s eyes widened, his skin rippled with a chill and the creaking of the floorboards began again.
Fear knows where you are and it will come for you.
It will always find you, eventually.
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