be in the house in five seconds. Five seconds between leaving the locked car and getting inside the house.
The shouting and screaming seemed to be getting closer. Maybe it was just louder. Either way, five seconds seemed too long. His dad would be back soon. He shrunk down in his seat, wanting to close his eyes again but not quite daring. He really wanted his dad back. He raised his hands to press them against his ears.
Was there something just outside the car? Something scraping softly against the paintwork? Tom held his breath. There was. Something was moving around outside. He could hear it. He could almost feel the vehicle rocking. Without daring to move his head, he glanced at the door. Still locked. No one could open it without the key. Could they?
He had to scream for his dad. Yell his head off. Except the night was full of screams. No one would hear his. The horn! His dad would hear that. He just had to lean forward, he could reach it from the back seat. His dad would hear and come running. Tom sat upright and got ready to spring.
A small hand appeared at the window, not six inches from his face.
Tom knew he’d cried out. He also knew no one had heard him. He tried again and nothing came out. He couldn’t move either. He just had to watch.
The hand was the wrong colour. Hands aren’t that colour. They aren’t red.
The hand began to move downwards, leaving a trail of something that looked like red slime. Tom could see the mark left behind by the base of the thumb and then five wavering lines as the thumb and fingers squeaked their way down the glass. He watched the arm and then the wrist disappear below the rim of the window. The palm had almost disappeared from view and then the fingers waggled at him, like a wave.
He was up, across the front seat, reaching for the horn. A face was staring in through the windscreen. Tom opened his mouth to yell but it was as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the car. He couldn’t breathe, so he couldn’t shout.
What was it? What the hell was it? A girl, he thought, she had long hair. But her head was far too big. And her face was like the figures Joe sometimes made from plasticine. Her eyes were huge and her lips were full, red and damp. The worst thing, almost, was her skin. It was so pale. It hung loose on her bones as if it was too big for her and it really didn’t look like skin at all. It was like the stuff you get when wax runs off candles and then hardens and goes all white and wrinkly. She looked like someone had dipped her in melted candle wax. But her skin wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was the lump on her neck that pushed up against her face and pulled the neckline of her dress out of shape. As she stared at Tom through the windscreen, the lump almost seemed to be moving by itself and he had a sudden vision of the rest of her body below the neck of her dress: lumpy, putty-soft, and with veins standing out against wax-like skin.
He’d found the horn and was pressing with all his strength, terrifying himself with the sound but simply unable to take his hand off it. Then he was out of the car. He didn’t know how he’d done that. He only knew he was outside. The drive was hard through his slippers, the night was filled with the sound of torment and the creature from a nightmare was between him and the front door.
He realized he was screaming. Then he was running. Then he was screaming in his mother’s voice. And his dad’s voice. He was yelling ‘Tom, Tom, where are you?’ and she was chasing him, she was coming after him and run, it was all he could do, run, run, run.
And hide.
Everything was quiet. Cold. Wet. He had no idea where he was, but he knew he was somewhere dark and damp. He was lying down, but had no idea whether he’d fallen or just run out of breath. He was panting as if he’d never get enough air in his lungs ever again. Something hard was digging into his ribs but he didn’t dare move.