Page 27 of John Eyre

Crawling under the covers, he blew out his candle, leaving it to sit on the bedside table. When a fire was blazing, he liked to sleep with the door of the bed cracked open, but there was no reason to do so tonight. He reached up and slid the door closed. It clicked shut, engulfing him in darkness.

Pain throbbed behind his eyes, making slumber elusive. For the next several hours, he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. At length, he could do nothing but stare straight up at the ceiling of his box bed. There was no way to discern the pattern of the wood in the darkness. Indeed, the construction of the bed was so faultless that not a single sliver of light managed to infiltrate the closely fitted seams.

What time was it? Twelve o’clock? One?

He closed his eyes again.

No sooner had he done so, than a whisper of sound struck his ears. His eyes snapped open. Was it the boys again? The two of them murmuring together on the other side of the wall?

But no. This was different. Softer.

And closer.

An icy shiver traced its way down John’s spine. He held his breath, listening. Perhaps he’d imagined it. Perhaps he’d—

It came again. A low slithering hiss. This time unmistakable.

Good God. Someone was trailing their fingertips over the oak panel of his box bed.

He sat bolt upright, his pulse leaping. “Who’s there?”

They provided no answer. Not in words. Instead, their fingernails scraped along the wood. The sound sent a jolt of fear through John’s vitals. Fear, and sudden anger.

“Enough of these pranks.” He reached to slide open the door to his bed.

But the door wouldn’t budge.

What the devil? He tried to force it open. “Who’s out there?” he demanded again, shaking the panel with all of his strength. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Bloody blasted hell. It was immoveable. As if someone had locked it from the outside.

“Impossible,” he muttered. The box bed didn’t have a lock on the outside of its sliding door. There was no reason for one. And yet, try as he might, he couldn’t move the damned thing.

He shook it again in a burst of panic. But it was no good. He hadn’t the strength to move it.

At last he lay back against his pillows, his breath coming in harsh pants.

“I’m not afraid,” he said. “And I’m not amused either. This is a puerile joke by any standard. Haven’t you anything better with which to torment me?”

His bold words were met with silence.

Total silence, for John could no longer discern the hiss of fingertips tracing along the bed. There were no footsteps, either. No indication that anyone had left the room.

He lay there, fists clenched, listening for a hint of his tormenter’s movement, or even of his breath.

But John heard neither.

As the minutes ticked by, his muscles began to relax.

And he began to wonder.

What if it hadn’t been a person at all? What if it had been a mouse or a rat? Rodents scrabbling in the dark? It was a distinct possibility. And in his present state of mind, one that would have instantly caused him to jump to conclusions. When coupled with the locked panel, was it any wonder he’d reacted as he had? That he’d believed it was a person responsible?

Sitting up, he tried sliding open the panel one final time. It held fast. “Blast it,” he said under his breath. He was well and truly stuck.

Not that it mattered. He’d have been closed up inside the bed until morning in any case. He may as well try to sleep. No one would be awake to help him for several hours at least. Until then, he’d just have to make the best of it.

He lay back again into the softness of his feather pillows.