Bogeymen At Bedtime

                                                                      Bogeymen At Bedtime





         Martin lay in his bed. His mind focused on his fear. His hands were sweating as they gripped the quilt. His seven year old heart pounding in his chest. The pounding reverberated through-out his whole being. He could feel the rhythmic beating all over his body, bits of him quivered slightly with each beat. He glanced at the clock, its second hand swept silently around the dial.

         The time was eight-fifty nine. The hands quivering impatiently, insistently. Martin could see the coil springs gathering, ready to flick the hands forward, forward to the hour of nine. That’s when it had happened every night since they had moved in a week ago. His hands clenched around the edge of the quilt, drawing it up to his chin, he shivered in anticipation.

         The clock issued a barely audible click as the hands  moved on. It sounded like a thunderclap to martin’s highly attuned senses.

         Then, “clump, ..... , clump”. The sound he feared.

A gentle “clump” on the bottom step,  followed by a pause. A second “clump”, a little louder, A third, louder still. Martin cowered beneath his bedclothes, fighting to stay his chattering teeth. Sweat beads popped through the skin on his forehead.

          “Clump” number four, then five.

The young mind in turmoil, “It’ll get me this time, I know it will” he thought. Awful pictures flashed through his mind.

         “Clump six, ..... , then seven.”

         “More than half way up now, I’m dead this time.” A picture of a pair of giant horses being ridden by two hideous figures settled in his mind’s eye. “The Nine-o-clock horses, and the bogey men!” his tortured mind screamed at him.

         “Clump, ..... , clump.”

His skin seemed to be shrinking, pulling his legs all the way up to his chin. Hands clamouring to wrap the quilt around him before diving around his legs, locking him into a ball.

         “Clump, ..... , clump, ..... , clump.”

         “One to go, please help me some-one, pleeeeeease !”

         “Clump” echoed around his head. “Thirteen steps and two more to my door, then that’s it.  Dear God please help me in my hour of need” praying fervently he pulled himself tighter.

         “Clump, clump, eeeeeeeee.” The door hinges squealed. Martin’s skin tried to contract even further as the sound ground through him, starting at the base of his spine and moving slowly skullwards, straightening his back as it went.

         Then silence, absolute silence. His ears hurt from the quiet. He dared to poke his head out from beneath his covers. The room was exactly as it was before. Then from behind him came the loudest “clump” yet. Martin’s heart leapt into his mouth and he shot under his covers again, cowering, quivering. He stayed there until morning.

         The next morning Martin told his mother of the events in the night. Desperately fighting back his tears he described exactly what had happened and how scared he had been. His mum hugged him tightly and laughed.

         “That was the man next door” she explained gently. “he has a wooden leg, so he has to take the stairs one step at a time, his stairs are right next to ours so that’s why it sounds like he is on ours. He sleeps in the same room as you, so that explains

the door and the last “clump” you heard was his wooden leg dropping to the floor when he took it off and got into bed. So you see darling there is nothing to be frightened of” she said. “But if it makes you feel any better, it scares me a little too” she whispered, hugging him even tighter.





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