Silent Night
by Amber Averay
My first Christmas in my own place. It was something I’d longed for growing up – never having anything of my own, being shuttled from home to home, bumped from family to family. In the end I stopped trying to create relationships or build a life anywhere, because it seemed I’d just get settled in and it would all be snatched away again.
So I planned, and waited, and when I was old enough I worked. I saved. I wanted a place of my own that I could arrange as I liked, filled with my things, that I knew I could call home without fear of it being ripped from me.
Admittedly it wasn’t a palace, but it was mine. Paid for with my own earnings. The furniture was second- third- fourth-hand, the carpet threadbare, the linens on the bed from a charity shop – but everything was clean and mine. That’s all that mattered.
I’d struck it lucky tonight. Christmas Eve, and I’d finished work before ten thirty. So I’d stopped by the local 24-hour, picking up a few more bits for my tree. It was plastic, and somewhat scrappy looking, but the decorations covered a lot of the gaps in the branches and the tinsel made it sparkle in the dim light from the bare overhead bulb.
When finished, I stood back and admired my handiwork. The tree might not have been TV advert-perfect, but it was good enough and I’d even wrapped a few gifts – yes, to myself – and tucked them beneath it. I’d bought gingerbread men from the bakery section of the supermarket on my way home; I put them on a plate, made a hot coffee, and settled myself into the armchair beside the tree with the book I’d been intending to read for the last three weeks.
It was blessedly, magically silent. After dealing with people all day – most decent, but too many testing my patience with their demands, complaints, and tantrums – the peace was perfect. I curled up on the armchair, my feet tucked under me, and finally settled into the novel I’d wanted to read.
Shame the quiet didn’t last.
At first it was an odd scritching, like little claws on floorboards – or behind skirting boards. I sighed, contemplating whether I wanted to see if I had mice or just keep reading.
The book won. But a few moments more and the scratching was louder, more insistent. A frantic scrabbling, and it seemed to be moving up the walls as if the perpetrator was climbing…no, perpetrators. There was definitely more than one.
Great.
Sighing, regretful because now I had to put the book down, I stood and went scrabbling through my cupboards, hoping but doubtful that I had mouse traps stashed somewhere. While searching I also checked the cupboards for any sign of rodent habitation, but there was nothing – not even the smallest trace.
That was a good sign. Unfortunately, there was also no sign of traps. I must have forgotten to buy some.
Well.
I puffed my cheeks while rocking back on my heels, wondering what to do next. The scratching sounds had trebled in volume, and now swarmed through the walls and overhead too.
Where the hell did you all come from? I wondered, bemused and not a little disgusted. One mouse I could handle – perhaps two. A whole mischief of them? No thank you!
Gooseflesh erupted over my arms, and I leapt to my feet and hurried to the door. I wasn’t going to call the landlord at this time of night – I was going to bring him here and let him listen for himself that there was a horde behind the walls of my flat! Disgusting, germy, revolting critters! I shuddered, reaching for the door handle.
It wouldn’t turn. Didn’t budge a fraction.
I checked the locks – I’d not thrown the deadbolt, or secured the chain, or even dropped the latch. Yet the damn handle wouldn’t twist.
I gripped it harder, shook it, pulled on it. The sounds all around me grew louder, more frantic. Hungry. The thought popped into my head and lodged there. I heard a whimpering noise, and realised it was me. I threw myself against the door, rattling it as hard as I could, listening to the sounds from behind the walls chattering away.
Hungry. Hungry. Hungry. Hungry.
Bleating in fear, palms soaked with sweat, heart rocketing about in my chest, I darted for the phone on the countertop and snatched it up, woke the screen, and nearly cried out. Scrolling over the screen were the words hungry hungry hungry hungry starving hungry hungry hungry starving hungry hungry fresh meat hungry hungry hungry
Terrified, sobbing, I threw the phone at the wall and watched a chunk of plaster splinter to the floor. Something peered at me through the gap – beady, gleaming, gleeful – and I backed away, eyes fixed to the tiny hole.
Claws scrabbled at the edges, tearing away, making it larger, and I turned and fled to the bedroom, slamming the door shut and leaning against it.
My heart was thundering so fiercely that it was a time before I realised the sounds had not followed me in here. In fact, the entire flat was silent. Tense. As if it held its breath, waiting for the next scene to play out.
I waited a few moments more, before tentatively opening the door and peeking through. Bloodshot eyes stared back at me. Before I could scream something sharp sliced across my throat, and warmth spilled down my chest, bubbled through my fingers when I tried to press the edges of the gash together.
Sharp teeth gnashed in my face, and I tried – I desperately tried to scream, to yell, to make a sound. But there was faint gurgling, a whistle soaked in blood, but nothing loud enough to disturb the silence of the night.
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