Mr Mumbles Read Free

turn to quicksand below me, sucking me down. I dropped to my knees, choking and struggling to breathe, as the world began to spin.
    The sound of that scratching grew louder and louder until it was the only thing I could hear. I covered my ears, desperately trying to block it out, but still it grew louder until I was sure my head was going to explode with it.
    With a faint
clunk
the room was filled with light, and the scratching came to an abrupt stop.
    ‘Nothing to worry about, just a fuse,’ I heard Mum shout. ‘You OK?’
    I opened my mouth to answer, but barely a whimper came out. The carpet was rough against my cheek, and I realised I was lying curled up on the floor, my knees almost to my chest. My arms shook as I tried to push myself into a sitting position.
    ‘Kyle, what’s wrong?’ Mum asked, her voice urgent and panicked as she pushed open my door. My head splitting with a ferocious ache, I turned and looked up at her. She knelt by my side and stroked my face with the back of her hand, wiping away tears I hadn’t even felt fall. ‘What happened?’ she asked, softly.
    ‘The attic,’ I managed to hiss. ‘I heard something in the attic. Scratching.’
    Mum leaned back on her heels, her eyes and mouth – just for a moment – three little circles of surprise. She gave an almost invisible shake of her head and smiled.
    ‘It was just your mind playing tricks on you,’ she assured me.
    ‘What? No it wasn’t!’ I insisted, annoyed that she’d think I’d let my imagination run away with me like that. ‘I heard something scratching up there!’
    ‘You know what I think?’ she smiled. ‘I think you got a scare when the lights went out and maybe had a little panic attack.’
    ‘I did not!’
    ‘Hard to breathe,’ said Mum, listing off the symptoms, ‘wobbly legs, feel like the room’s closing in on you…’
    Reluctant as I was to admit it, it would help explain why I’d reacted the way I had. I’d never felt that scared before, and all because of what? A scraping noise? Idiot.
    ‘OK,’ I reluctantly confessed, ‘maybe it was.’ Mum flashed me a sympathetic smile and rustled my hair. ‘You seem to know a lot about them,’ I said. ‘Do you get them?’
    ‘Me? No,’ said Mum, shaking her head. ‘But your da—’
    She stopped, biting her lip just as I had done in the kitchen. She’d almost let something slip about my dad.
    ‘But my dad did,’ I guessed. ‘That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? You were going to tell me my dad used to have panic attacks.’
    ‘No, I wasn’t,’ Mum replied. She had her defences back up and was getting to her feet. ‘I was going to say you’re darn lucky you don’t get them more often.’
    She was lying, I could tell, but she was making for the door now, and more than anything I didn’t want to be left alone in this room.
    ‘Mum!’ I spluttered. She stopped in the doorway, hesitated, then turned back to me. I should have told her I was sorry for our argument in the kitchen, but when I opened my mouth all that came out was: ‘I really did hear something in the attic.’
    Mum looked at me for a long time, her eyes scanning my face. Eventually, she shrugged and smiled a thin-lipped smile.
    ‘Well, then. Let’s check it out.’
    *
    A chill breeze rolled down through the hole in the ceiling as Mum slid back the lock and let the wooden hatch swing open. Stale, years-old air filled my nostrils, forcing me to take a step back. The smell reminded me of the day room in the home Nan stays in. Somewhere in the shadows, the hot water boiler hissed quietly, making it sound as if the loft itself was breathing.
    The beam of Mum’s torch cut through the darkness of the attic, projecting a misshapen circle of light on to the bare wooden planks of the roof. Shoulder to shoulder we stood on our tiptoes, peering into the gloom.
    ‘See anything?’ I asked, trying to disguise the shake in my voice.
    ‘Nothing from here,’ Mum replied. Her voice sounded