Untapped

Guy sat up in bed, breathing hard. He looked around in the darkness. What had woken him up? Was it a bad dream? A noise from somewhere in the night? He was just about to lie back down and try to get back to sleep when he heard it again. He titled his head.

What was that noise? There was something, this strange tap-tap-tapping. Was there somebody at the window? A scene from a horror film came to mind. A vampire tapping on the window, asking to be invited in. 

Mind you, even the most logical explanation was rather disturbing. Was somebody throwing stones up at his bedroom window? What could they want? Nothing good ever came from being woken at this time at night.

He threw back the duvet, and went over to the window. Quite unsure what he would discover, he pulled back the curtain. He peered out into the darkness outside. The stars above, the glow of the streetlights lining the pavement.

He gasped. There was a figure down there. The man was standing in the glow of the streetlight, illuminated as though standing in a spot-light on stage. He wore a trench-coat and fedora hat. He looked like a detective from an old black and white film. And he was staring up at Guy.

Who was he? Why was he watching him? Guy wondered if he should go down and approach him, ask what he wanted. No, if he left the man alone, maybe he would go away. He couldn’t control who loitered outside. As long as the guy left him alone, why should he care?

He drew the curtains back into place. The layer of fabric shutting out the world, making him feel better. Telling himself that everything seemed worse at night, he climbed back into bed, pulling the quilt up tight to his chin.

When Guy woke the next morning, the strange incident in the night felt like a dream. Maybe that’s what it had been. Maybe he had been asleep. Maybe he had walked to the window in a sleepy daze, and imagined the figure in the lamplight. Or maybe he had dreamed the whole thing, and had been tucked up in bed the whole time. 

By the time he was leaving for work, he felt much better about everything. It must have just been a dream. He had been stressed about things recently. There seemed to be something going wrong in either his work life or his personal life.

That evening, as he was settling down on the sofa with a cup of tea, to tune into some rubbish television, or maybe a film, he heard a noise. The strange sound chilled him. It was the noise he’d heard in the night. It was that tapping sound. Tap-tap-tap. Whereas in the night, he had thought, logically that the sound was coming from someone at the window, now the sound seemed to be coming from above, from higher up in the house. 

Puzzled by the sound, he headed upstairs, listening and staring at the ceiling. He stood on the landing, still listening. The sound continued. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

He went into each room, listening. The sound was still coming from above. He returned to the landing, gazing up at the loft hatch. Was there something up there? Maybe he had an infestation. Maybe birds or squirrels had got in the loft. 

He stood on his tip-toes and reached for the pull-string. He pulled at the string but the loft door didn’t budge. The door should open and the wooden ladders slide down. But the door remained shut. Guy tried again. Nothing.

The tapping continued. Guy had to get in there and see what on earth was making that awful racket. He grabbed a chair from the spare room, and with screwdriver in hand, was about to work on dismantling the loft-hatch door. Then the tapping stopped. 

After the tapping ringing in his ears, the silence seemed to fill the space around him. Guy stepped down from the chair, eyes on the loft-hatch. Waiting, listening. 

Silence.

He would check the loft another time. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face whatever was up there. Maybe it was all in his mind. They said that the mind was a strange thing and could make you see and hear all sorts. He hoped that would be the end of whatever the noise was. There would no doubt be a logical explanation for it.

On his way to work the next morning, Guy was at the traffic lights, waiting for the red light to change, when he spotted a figure hovering on the pavement. Guy recognised him instantly. It was the man he’d seen lurking outside his house the other night. He was standing at the crossing. The man he had seen in what he assumed was all a dream, was now standing on the pavement.

It was definitely him. He wore the same coat, the same fedora hat, and was staring at Guy. At that moments the traffic lights changed. The car behind beeped, so he had no option but to drive off. 

All that day, the thing that really unsettled him was that seeing the man in the trench-coat, meant that what he had seen the other night had been real. This man seemed to be watching him, stalking him. This, coupled with the strange tapping sound, was just all so disturbing. Right then, he couldn’t recall a time when the world had made sense. He felt like things had always been this twisted and distorted and off-kilter. 

That evening, one of his friends phoned him for a catch-up. While he and Billy chatted, Guy heard clicks on the other end of the line, and what sounded like other voices. The strange voices sounded distorted, far away. Finally, as Billy was regaling Guy with a funny story of his mother’s use of predictive text, Guy interrupted him.

‘Sorry, Billy. Can you hear that?’ Guy asked.

‘All I can hear is you, mate.’ Billy said.

‘There’s someone on the line, listening in. You really can’t hear that?’ Guy asked.

Billy was still speaking, as Guy hung up the phone. He didn’t want to say another word on the line, as there was definitely someone listening in. 

At that moment, the tapping sound started again. It was coming from overhead, but it also seemed to be coming from all around him, from everywhere, from nowhere, all at the same time.

Was he losing his mind? He went to speak, to say something, to call out in the darkness, to whoever or whatever was tormenting him. He stopped. 

The tapping stopped. What was going on? He ran a hand though his hair. Things seemed to be so strange. 

Having barely slept that evening, he phoned in sick the next morning. All the time he was on the phone to work, he could hear the clicking and echoing voices in the background. He talked as quickly as he could, made his excuses about a stomach bug, and ended the call.

A few days later, there was a knock at the door. Guy hovered in the hallway, and called out, asking who was there.

‘Guy, it’s me, Billy.’ called the voice.

‘Are you alone?’ Guy asked from the hallway.

‘Yes, of course I am.’ 

Guy opened the door and peered out.

Billy was on the doorstep, alone, a concerned look on his face. 

Guy ushered him inside, shutting the door and locking it behind them. Billy stared around the living room in shock. In the middle of the floor was Guy’s household electrical items, dismantled, with their wiring and insides strewn everywhere. 

‘You weren’t answering your phone, so I thought I’d call and see how you were doing.’ Billy said, staring at the mobile phone lying in pieces on the floor.

Guy looked awful. He looked like he hadn’t washed, shaved or even slept in days. He looked so dishevelled, and he had this wide-eyed suspicious gaze. 

‘Who sent you?’ Guy asked.

‘Sent me? Nobody sent me. It’s be, Billy. I’m your best mate.’

‘I think you should leave.’ Guy said. ‘It’s too risky.’

‘What are you talking about? What’s too risky?’ Billy said.

Billy reached to put a hand on Guy’s shoulder. Guy swatted his hand away, and pushed Billy hard in the chest. As he headed for the door, Billy called out that Guy needed to see someone, to get professional help. 

Guy peered through the window, watching as Billy climbed in his car, and drove off down the street. There was a transit van with blacked out windows parked on the corner. Guy couldn’t explain fully, but there was just something not right about the vehicle. He sensed there were people inside the van, and that they were watching him through the tinted windows. 

Guy charged outside, and ran towards the transit van. As he neared the vehicle, it screeched off down the street, swerving erratically around the corner.

Even though the van had left, Guy sensed they were still listening, still lurking in the shadows. 

‘Who are you?’ He shouted out loud.

He looked around, stared at the dark skies over-head waiting, needed an answer.

‘I don’t know what’s going on but I want it to stop! Why are you doing this to me?’ He yelled.

He paused, listening, waiting for an answer.

‘Is this all some sick joke at my expense? I’m not laughing.’ Guy screamed out.

A noise rang out from up the street. Guy turned to see an army of uniformed police officers in full riot-gear, helmets, truncheons and shields, marching towards him. A helicopter rattled and hovered over-head. Guy was framed in the spot-light glow from the helicopter searchlight. 

Guy swore. So his suspicions were true! He wasn’t being paranoid. They really were after him. He was about to turn and run, when a man in a dark suit stepped forward from the huddle of police officers. 

His pale features looked ghostly in the glow of the searchlight. His thin tie flapped in the wind from the helicopter. 

‘You need to forget about all this. Just forget about everything and carry on with your life.’ The man insisted, shouting to be heard over the helicopter.

‘I want to see whoever is in charge.’ Guy yelled in repy.

‘That’s not possible. He doesn’t exist.’

Guy’s friend Billy appeared beside the man. 

‘Please, Guy, you have to let this go.’ Billy pleaded.

‘You’re one of them, aren’t you?’ Guy asked. 

Billy simply nodded. 

Guy was running down a long corridor, with the police officers giving chase behind him. There was a door at the far end of the corridor Guy knew he had to reach that door. He ran and ran, his legs hurting with the exertion. The officers stormed after him, calling out that he should give himself up. They were gaining on him, getting closer and closer. He had to reach that door.

Finally, he reached the door at the end of the corridor. Before the officers could reach him, he yanked the door open and flung himself through the doorway. 

He stepped through into an identical corridor. He swore and rushed onwards, as the cops spilled through behind him. He ran and ran, trying to keep ahead of the officers. He rushed on down the corridor, the police gaining every moment.

Two officers dived at him, tackling him to the floor. He hit the floor hard. He landed near an open doorway.

The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the figure through the doorway. It was a man in a check shirt. He was sitting at a desk, his back to the door. He was typing away at an old-fashioned typewriter. 

It was daylight and Guy found himself standing outside a pub. The sign read The Castle in the Sky. The beer garden was packed. People were dressed for the good weather, t-shirts and shorts, summer dresses and sunglasses. They were drinking lager and cider, and laughing and joking, chatting loudly.

A man was watching him from one of the wooden tables. The man got to his feet and waved him over. As Guy approached, the figure awkwardly offered a hand.

Guy shook the offered hand. The man was wearing Beatles t-shirt under a check shirt, and faded jeans and was studying him through his round glasses.

Was this the man who had all the answers? While all around them, the cheap and cheerful pub chain was having its beer and a burger night, Guy just wanted to find out what was going on. 

A barmaid appeared with a burger and a pint of beer for each of them. She gave the man a smile and placed the order on the table in front of them.

The man in the Beatles t-shirt took a bite of his burger and nodded in approval. He wiped his hands on a napkin, then took a long swig of beer.

Guy leaned forward, eager for answers, wanting, needing desperately to understand. 

‘Are you him? The one in charge?’ Guy asked. 

The man pushed his glasses up and shrugged.

‘You could say that.’ the man said.

‘And you control everything?’ Guy said.

‘Think of something? Anything.’

Suddenly, racehorses were charging through the beer garden, racing, riding, right by them, leaping the pub tables as though they were fences. The thunder of hooves filled Guy’s ears. 

Jockeys in brightly coloured jerseys steered the horses as they crashed through the wooden fence on the far side and off through the pub car-park.

A moment later the horses were gone and the beer garden returned to normal.

‘Was that like you imagined?’ the man asked.

Guy nodded, lost for words for a long moment. The man squirted ketchup onto his fries and carried on eating.

‘And you made that happen? You control the universe?’ Guy said finally. 

‘Yes, I suppose so, but it’s not like that. It’s not how you think.’ 

‘How’s that? You control what happens in the universe, don’t you?’ Guy insisted.

‘I control what happens in your universe, that much is true.’

‘So, you’re a god?’ Guy said.

The man shook his head. 

‘I’m really not. It’s really not like that.’

‘How then? I deserve an explanation. I don’t even know what to call you. Do gods have a name?’

‘My name’s Chris.’

‘A god called Chris?’ Guy asked.

Chris laughed. 

‘Just Chris is fine.’ Chris said. 

‘And you control all this?’ Guy waved a hand at the world around them.

Chris nodded. 

‘I’m a writer, and you are a character in my story. All this is a world I invented. I’m writing myself into this story. I’m writing this very scene.’ Chris said.

The ridiculousness of the idea struck Guy. This was just preposterous. Surely not.

Could he actually be a character in a novel, a story, and was Chris the creative writer? But, somehow, this outlandish notion struck a chord, it hit home.

‘What is that infernal noise? That tapping I’ve been hearing?’ Guy asked.

Chris tapped his fingers on the table, miming typing on a keyboard.

Suddenly the creepy tapping made sense. The tapping the sound of the writer typing away on the keyboard. The tapping that felt as deep and personal as the very beating of his heart. A shiver went through him.

He knew Chris was right.

Even his name, Guy, the generic term for a man. Was he just part of some author’s first draft?

‘You’re telling me that all this, the whole world, is all made up? That you invented it?’ Guy asked, already knowing the answer.

Chris nodded.

‘How is that supposed to make me feel? That none of this is real, that I’m not real.’ Guy sighed.

‘Who’s to say what reality is anyway? You’re as real as you feel.’ Chris replied.

Guy shook his head, trying to figure out this mess. Maybe Chris had a point. Who was to say what reality was? Maybe this Chris feller had moments where he felt like a character in a play.

‘Where do we go from here, Chris?’ Guy asked finally.

‘Wherever you like, really.’ Chris said. ‘I mean, you’re the main character in the story.’

The tapping sound started from all around, resonating loudly, rumbling like an earthquake, causing the glasses on the table to shake, the cutlery to rattle. The beer glasses toppled over, spilling their frothy contents to the floor.

‘Go and get another drink.’ Chris said.

‘And then what?’ Guy asked.

‘A whole new chapter will begin.’ Chris said.

Feeling less sure of anything than ever, Guy got to his feet. 

As he reached the door, Guy looked back over his shoulder. The table was empty. Guy could have sworn he had been here with somebody. Who was it? He couldn’t recall who he had been speaking to. A stranger? An old friend? A colleague? 

He was still wondering who he had been talking to moments earlier, when a woman came through the doorway, bumping into him, spilling her wine over him.

‘I’ve ruined your evening, I’m so sorry.’ She said.

‘It’s okay. I was having quite the day already.’ said Guy.

‘Can I get you a drink to make up for it?’ She asked.

‘You could always join me. I’m here on my own anyway.’

Guy pointed to the empty table.

She grinned.

‘I’d like that. And I promise I won’t spill this one.’ She laughed. 

As they headed to the bar for more drinks, Guy had a feeling his day was about to get better.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom