The Paperboy

Philip Tomkins teetered on the edge of his seat, as well as the
brink of insanity. He could no longer distinguish between truth
or lie, reality or fantasy, life or death.
Not since it had all happened, anyway.
Now, he just sits. Day after day, for nearly a week, he waits
and hopes that it’s all a terrible nightmare. That, at any time
soon, he’ll awake, screaming but relieved. Then it’s time.

4:30 P.M

He almost falls from his chair, as he hears Its deathly chorus,
carried on he wind, announcing Its approach. Chink – screech,
chink – screech, chink – screech. The grinding sound of metal
on metal.

Then, there He was.

Like a reminder of the past. An evil portent, indicating his guilt.
But, why should It haunt him each day? Why must It torment him?
What would his admission of guilt solve now? Nothing, that’s what,
nothing. So, why?

At the same time each day, the same child arrives to deliver his
newspaper. He enters the tarmacadam driveway, on his scuffed and
twisted bicycle. The front wheel, buckled, making that dreadful
metallic, scraping sound that always sent a shiver down the spine of
the man that awaited it. Each day, He would leave his bicycle, and
make his way towards the house, dragging his crippled right leg
behind him, a dark trail of blood marking its wake. He only stops
once, and that is to stare, piteously, into the eyes which follow him
as he hobbles his way to the doorway. Blood soaks his torn jacket,
running down to his jeans, a dark patch appearing down one of the
legs, like a rapidly spreading urine stain.

Quickly running through the lounge door and out into the hall,
a petrified, Philip Tomkins, could only look on in horror and cold
amusement, as the flap of the letterbox finally opens.

First appears the spectral hand lifting the brass flap, then the tiny
rectangular offering of blood spattered, grey flesh. Its single blood-
shot eyeball prying venomously into the hallway, searching for the
man who stands stark inside. The emotion now deep within the eye,
no longer one of pity, but one of heinous thoughts, fuelled by hatred
and revulsion. The eyeball moves up, to be replaced by a constantly
moving, muted mouth. Silently mouthing unheard words of what
were obviously words of revile, by the way that the boys lips were
curled back, into a menacing snarl.
In the name of God almighty, please make this ghostly nightmare
end, and make this dreadful apparition stop in haunting me. These
were the thoughts ringing in his ears, causing him to clasp his hands
over them, screwing his eyes up, as if, by willing it away, it would
all stop.
But, no amount of prayer or denial would change the forth-coming
event that was to befall him.
This apparition would not disappear, until it had fulfilled a promise
to itself.

As Philip Tomkins huddled against the far wall, he knew that the
shadowy figure beyond the glass door could not be real. He knew it
was certainly his regular paperboy, only, in a spiritual sense of being.
Not physical.
He knew this to be the case, because, the physical body of the child,
was a rotting mass in his bathtub. Now, subsequently, each day since
the accident had happened, at the same time precisely, he appears.

It was only a few drinks, that was all. I wasn’t inebriated. I could
still drive perfectly. How could I have possibly known that he was on
the driveway? I couldn’t see him, as he was crouching down to pick
up his bike. The conifer bushes that border the garden hid him from
view. I wasn’t to know. Once again these thoughts ran through his
mind. Trying to convince himself of his twisted innocence. It wasn’t
his fault. Trying harder to push out the feelings of guilt.

For the past four days, through slowly tormented insanity, he had
tried to reason his actions. Why he had brought the body of the boy
into the house, instead of calling the emergency services immediately.
Why he had then hid the bicycle in the garage under a tarpaulin sheet,
going back to cover up the evidence behind him. Why he then cowered
behind the curtains, pretending to be away, when police officer’s had
turned up on the doorstep, obviously enquiring as to the whereabouts
of the missing boy. It wouldn’t take them long to work out that the
house next door was the last one to receive their newspaper. They’ll
be back. God, how he wished they would come back, if, just to end it.
So here he lay, in the foetal position on the hallway floor, staring
into an unblinking eye, hoping and praying for a way out. A way out
of this relentless nightmare.

Then it happened.

Unlike the previous times, where the letterbox would simply close
down gently, only for this circus of horrors to start up again the next
day. Today, something different occurred.
Before the flap dropped down, like the closing curtain, on this freak
show. A mutilated offering for a hand, pushed something through the
opening. It fell clumsily to the wooden tiled floor with a slap.
He couldn’t focus on what it was at first, then realised that it was
Just a newspaper. But, the difference with this newspaper was, on first
inspection of it, the pages looked blank. They were just empty paper.
He edged his way slowly over towards the door. The closer he came
to the doorway, the angrier and more penetrating, was the view of the
eye peering down at his every movement.
He reached out his trembling hand tentatively, fearing that, at any
moment, a spectral arm would reach in through the letterbox, pulling
him up towards the snarling teeth. No such arm came. He was now
kneeling up infront of the door, inches from his tormenter, staring,
unable to look away. The eye would stare back, into his soul, then
drop its gaze down towards the newspaper in Philip Tomkins hand.
Then the silently aggressive mouth would appear. Back to the eye.
This alternating spectacle accelerating to the point of becoming a
rapid blur.
He could feel the icy cold breath and smell the stench of decay in
nostrils. His heart beat an erratic rhythm inside his heaving chest. He
could feel it getting tighter and tighter, the pain excruciating.
As if, willing him on, the child outside matched his excitement in
its movement. He rifled the pages in his hands, knowing that he must
be missing something. Somewhere on these pages was a message, he
knew it. But, nothing.

Then.

He thought he saw something black. On the middle pages. Turning
back a few pages, he saw it. Bold letters across both pages.

Outside, for the first time, the thing banged against the opposite side
of the door. He could feel its presence pushing on the wood, its behaviour
becoming more intense by the second. The eye, the mouth, the head now
crashing into the framework, fists beating, an immense pressure filled
the surrounding hallway. The noise, deafening. The frenetic banging on
the outside reaching a crescendo.
He looked down at the writing on the page.
It was to be the last thing that he would see.

Philip Tomkins
Born 15th of November 1959 – Died 27th of september 2012

Clutching his chest. He then lay still.