In Comes The Bogeyman

Granny’s in the kitchen doing a little stitching, in comes The Bogeyman and pushes Granny out…

Needle in hand, workbox on the table, Adeline Cruikshank - Ads to her friends – recalled the old skipping rhyme of her schooldays. Hazel and Ruth - polio victims so it was always them - rope stretched between them, turning it up and over the pigtailed head of whoever’s ‘go’ it happened to be. Whoosh, skiff, whoosh skiff, fifteen jumped beats. White knee-high socks and buckle-my-gravel-scuffed-shoe, grey-pleated skirt a-swishing, till the word was ‘out’ and the next eager eight-year-old waiting in line chanted breathlessly in to leap…

Gran – ny… Bo - gey – man… Characters vaguely pictured. Remote as the sailor who went to ‘sea, sea, sea’ in their evermore frantic, palm-slapping hand-clapping game. About as much chance of Billy Hawks whose dad was still in The Royal Navy post-war (and who wanted to join him one day) turning into Popeye as they had of ever realising the caricature of the cute little grey-haired old lady who sometimes popped up in the newer cartoons, to be laughed at pre-main-feature at the Saturday Matinee. Less chance still of them coming face-to-face with a real-life demon, although everyone knew The Bogeyman lived in the janitor’s shed…

Such slippery black material, black as the night had become, although if Ads did decide to turn and look to her kitchen window, the reflection of all she saw before her - the plain white wall and cupboards, the strip-light on the ceiling, the brightest in the house - would help counteract this, and this she considered a blessing.

Rethreading the needle and checking the hem, Ads peered over the top of her specs as the remainder of the garment tumbled down from her lap… Nice of you to do this, Gran. Harry will be pleased… Not that her granddaughter, Kirsty would believe her if she said she was only altering this costume now – at 3am - because she’d been afraid to close her eyes, further unsettled as she had been by the sight of the leftover hotdogs on the kitchen unit. Bent into a large glass bowl, the giant sausages too closely resembled a brown severed hand, the brine in which they’d been steeped, formaldehyde. And then there were the shadows, leaves and branches silently swaying behind the tempered glass paneled back door. There were faces in those. Great wide eyes and mouths agape. And the ivy which crept around the window, it would take over one day, seal her in, become the blind she’d never thought to buy.

Granny Ads? Why, she’s so young for her age, so independent, so spirited. Afraid of nothing and no-one. Quite puts the rest of us to shame… Kirsty only saw so much. As did the rest of them.

Falling asleep, dropping off, had for the past few months been exactly like that – a plummet down from the edge of the Earth – and every night, with pounding heart, she'd had to kick her way back up again. Kick herself alive. She’d started keeping the bedroom light on to stop herself thinking that she’d lost her sight and panicking, not that this helped too much with the rest, so, in the end, the only way she could cope with her anxieties was if she stayed awake, avoided the bedroom altogether. The sounds of day - the chirp of the birds, the hum of the traffic which sounded more distant than it used to, even the family Armstrong thudding around next door - would eventually come to soothe her, and she would lay her head down, but in the meantime, in these dark, hellish hours, she had no other choice but to distract herself. Knitting, sewing – Grandmother chores. Great Grandmother for the past thirteen years. Unlucky for some… She wished she could put the radio on, but the last time she did so at this time of night the Armstrongs had called the police…

A-rat-a-tat-tat. The Bogeyman’s gonna get you. You’re going in the shed… She’d missed a skip and they’d tied the rope around her waist. Rusted iron bars on the cracked glass panes, spooky black hole in the door.

Her house being close to the primary school, Kirsty would come with the kids after three when they finished for the day. I’m hungry, Great-Granny Ads, the usual cry. Noses in the fridge. And then Harry would drop in after High School and ask about his costume. Too old for Trick or Treating according to his mum, but he so wanted to be The Reaper this Halloween… Just one more time, Mum. Just, please, one more year…

Ads shifted in her chair, gathered up the material. Maybe she’d put her CD on low. Blue Oyster Cult... Maybe not…

Funny how things turned out, how she’d become best friends with Mary after she’d helped Ruth and Hazel tie her up and drag her to the shed, and Mr. Lockie – Sid, the jannie – had appeared, all tweedy flat cap and red bulbous nose… Whit’s gawn on here then? That’s no how yer meant tae play wi’ skippin’ ropes… He raised his arm. Saved by the hand-rung bell… I’m sorry, Adeline, I’m really sorry. The others made me do it… Tears, but on Mary’s part alone… Always… Ads had lost count of the number of times her friend had told her she admired her resilience, her adaptability, her acceptance of all that was new in this strange modern world…

Whoosh, skiff, whoosh skiff… The sound was in her ears now. And thump, thump, thump, as she bent to retrieve the Reaper’s hood from the floor. Just the man behind the drumkit in her head, she told herself. Foot-pumping the peddle, brushing the cymbal. Woozy… She could call him that. Dress him in that jacket she’d spotted in town. The leather one that looked so waxy and distressed. She’d only seen the back of it, though. Metal studs in a V-shape starting at the shoulder blades and meeting just above the waist, the names of death-metal bands emblazoned in chalky yellow. The male who’d been wearing it had stood in front of her at the crossing, a tattoo - of a scorpion, she’d thought – on his neck. Mary, who had recently been followed home (so she claimed) by a man just like him whose shirt had been covered in blood, had side-stepped to avoid him… And look, even the crows are flocking off…! Mary couldn’t understand why she’d laughed when she’d said it. Didn’t know what she'd meant by death-metal. But then, weren’t crows a portent of doom? And, weren’t a group of them called a murder…?

Sit up, sit up, straight as you can. Nothing to worry about. This will pass in a minute… Better… Better now… Reach for the pins, hood attached. Rethread the needle… Black on black, so hard to see… Best go back to the optician… Aha, aha… just a few more stitches, and, finally, costume complete…

She’d try it on, she thought. She and Harry were around the same size. He was even a little taller. Funny how he had grown and she had shrunk at this comparable rate… She pulled the costume over her head and… CLUNK! Lights out.

It took a moment… Electricity, she knew it was that. Not blindness. Not a heart attack. Not some grizzly intruder. Just insufficient credit in the meter. Fool that she was, she should have anticipated this. She swished the cloak around her as she turned… Now where was the torch? Find that and she’d have light again. Emergency credit at the press of a button… She reached for the edge of the unit. Grimaced. The hotdog hand, she should have covered it. Likewise, the window, so dark without its familiar bright reflections. Darker still where her Reaper’s costume merged with the night… Whoosh, skiff, whoosh skiff… She stared at her face, distorted and floating. Thud, thud, thud… Little Drummer Boy, Woozy, at it again… She lowered her head, gripped onto the draining board, so cold. Only turned when she remembered that the torch was out in the lobby, hanging up… One step, two, across the polished floor, foot caught on the slippery cloak forgotten…

Trip-hazards. People her age were always warned about those… And kitchens. The most dangerous room in the house.