You’d better watch out,
You’d better not cry,
You’d better not pout,
I’m telling you why,
Santa Claus is comin’ to town.
My finger flew to the power button. I pressed it once, but the music played on, drowning out all other noise. Again and again I stabbed my finger against the controls, but the machine didn’t respond to any of them.
Reaching down behind the player, I gave a short, sharp yank on the power cable. It would have to shut up after that.
But it didn’t.
He sees you when you’re sleeping,
He knows when you’re awake…
My whole body shook with shock. This couldn’t be happening. This was impossible.
Frantic with fear, I brought the baseball bat down hard on the CD player. The plastic casing gave a crack, the disk let out a deafening screech, and then silence returned to the living room.
I waited, bat raised, eyes fixed on the stereo. The storm howled outside, but inside all was quiet. Cautiously, I lowered the bat, turned away, and got back to trying to think of a way out of this mess.
Click. Over my shoulder, I heard the display on the CD player blink into life once again. Track eight kicked back in straight away. This time, though, it seemed stuck in an endless repetitive loop.
You’d better watch out, tsssk.
You’d better watch out, tsssk.
You’d better watch out, tsssk.
I lifted my leg to stamp on the machine. Suddenly, the window to my right exploded inwards, showering the room with deadly shards of glass. The couch shielded me as I threw myself to the floor behind it, my hands held protectively over my head.
As soon as the last pieces had fallen, I leapt back to my feet. A tall dark figure drew itself up to its full height on the other side of the sofa.
Another lightning bolt cast a blue aura around the figure, revealing his long dark overcoat pulled up to his ears, and his black hat pulled down almost to meet it. My mouth flapped open and closed, acting out the motions of screaming, but too choked with terror to actually manage the noise.
The figure fixed me with a beady glare and a million memories came rushing back, as if a dam had been thrown wide open in my subconscious. They were overpowering. Overwhelming. The sheer force of them nearly knocked me off my feet. They couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be happening!
Deep down, though, I knew it was. Deep down I finally understood exactly what was going on.
Mr Mumbles was back.
I remembered.
Every line, every detail of the figure before me was…no, not the same. Familiar, but different. The Mr Mumbles of my childhood hadn’t been quite like this. He had been short and skinny with friendly, shining eyes and a gift for slapstick.
His speech had always been impossible to understand, but he’d made up for it with his wide range of comedy pratfalls and skilful miming. He had been my funny little friend. My very own Charlie Chaplin.
The thing standing before me now didn’t look funny at all.
The clothes were the same – the overcoat with its high collar, the curve of the hat. Parts of his face looked vaguely like I remembered – the bushy eyebrows, the big ears – but others couldn’t have been more different.
His once playful eyes were dark and sunken. He’d had jolly, rosy cheeks, but now they were pale and wrinkled, like old paper. Even in the dark I could make out the spidery, dark blue lines of veins creeping below the skin.
Every detail was so lifelike. He was so real. Solid. And standing in the middle of my living room.
I’m not sure, but I think even when I was young I kind of knew Mr Mumbles wasn’t real. Not really real, anyway. That’s not to say I couldn’t see him back then, but I suppose the way I saw him wasn’t the same. He was more like a ghost I could conjure up. A supernatural spirit dressed for stormy weather, invisible to everyone but me. My best friend.
Not any more.
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