The Man-hole Mystery

By Laura Marie Wingate

 I waited until midnight, dad still hadn't put the traps in.  He probably never will.  I got the ladder and climbed up to the man hole.  I was so curious to see what was up there.

  Even though Dad said it was mice, I'd been listening to it all day, and I was convinced it wasn't.  So now I attempted to lift the man hole off, but it didn't budge.  It didn't take me long to realize it was stuck with layers of paint.

  Nevertheless, my determination drove me to fetch a screwdriver to pry the trap door open.  Doing so, I made quite a racket, which obviously woke dad.

  "What's that bloody noise?" he yelled.

  Next thing I knew Dad had approached me in an undone dressing gown and slippers.  He looked pretty fierce.

  I had to think quick.  "I... couldn't sleep cause of the mice."

  "Go back to bed," he ordered.

  I guess I had to wait to find out what it was up in our roof.

  Nobody heard anything for three months after that, so we just forgot about it.

  Until one day, I could hear that same noise. It was twice as loud and very easy to distinguish.  "Squeak, squeak... SQUEEEAK!"  I imitated.  BANG!

  "What the hell was that?"  I heard Mum, yell.

  "It's those dam mice again," Dad answered.

Dad went outside to the shed and collected a pile of traps.  He cut some cheese from the kitchen and set the step ladder under the 

manhole.  After he climbed up he carefully lifted the trap door and...

  "What's that?"  Mum asked quickly.

  "Where?"  Dad turned to address Mum.

  An old and tattered face peered out of the hole and we all watched, paralyzed, as his long bony fingers reached out to grab dad's shacking grip on the torch.

  As quickly as he could Dad shut the manhole and jumped off the ladder.  "Bloody Hell!  We've got a fuckin antique living in our attic.  Where's the shot gun?" 

  Usually I'd groan at Dad's over reaction but this time I was so bewilded at what I had just seen that my mouth was shut tight.

  It turned out that the dead guy who lived in the house before us wasn't dead at all.  He'd been feeding off the mice up there for two years and had finally gathered enough strength to begin his way out.  

  Once he'd had a decent meal and some rest the proprietor said he was truly greatful that we had let him out of the prison we'd called an attic.  He even offered us to stay at his home.  

  But dad wouldn't here of it.  "I'm not bloody living in no place with a guy who lives off rodents.  We're suing the real estate for selling us possessed property."

  The temper that went with dad's threat was enough to get us the newest house on the market.  We moved as soon as dad got someone to properly check it out.  There was no way we were gonna have old carnivores in this attic. 

By Laura Marie Wingate