Behind-the-Writing
Scuttle was a very short story. To get myself back into writing again I planned on writing a short story each week, this was my first idea and so became my first story in the series. The way I have chosen to write this story is to keep it action based. It does have backstory and the character is meant to be a realistic character. Usually I focus too much on creating a backstory which will be revealed over time, or building the character up with an opening scene. I removed all of that and just focused on what was happening for this story, that way I know I can complete it within my schedule.
​
The reason behind the spiders and insects and rodents was because personally those things creep me out. They never used to. Well, yes, spiders always have, but that's just normal. But I have found that the older I get, the more creeped out by bugs I am. Especially if they are eating the flesh from a corpse.
​
The images are my own drawings. I am no artist which is why they are silhouettes (and yes, the door is supposed to look like that). I believe Illustrations help give character to a story, and it doesn't just apply to children's books. George R.R. Martin has written a number of short stories based around two character's (Dunk and Egg) from his A song of Ice and Fire series. When the first collection of these stories was released which is known as A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, the book contained many beautiful illustrations by Gary Gianni. It made the book much more casual to read and gave the characters a face much closer to how the author imagined them. No matter how much description is given on a person or place, my interpretation and imagination is going to be different than someone else's and that of the creator. Imagry is a great bridge between the two.
Obviously you have read it so you know it has a dark, eerie feeling. The main character is supposed to be loosing his grips on sanity. A big influence to this story was a short story by Edgar Allan Poe; The Tale Tell Heart. A very dark and disturbing story about a man who kills an older man but then can still hear the old-timers heart beating beneath the floor boards.
Scuttle
Scratching, scraping. Always scuttling. I can hear them at night, every night, scurrying under the floorboards and in the walls and in the ceiling. It echoes. Echoes through my ears. They are in my head scuttling, scuttling, scuttling! (Sigh) I’ve laid traps and and sprinkled poison at every hole and small crack on the floor throughout the entire flat but still they scutter.
I managed to rent this one bedroom flat for a very low price, a steal really, yet it is no wonder that the last tenant ran away as fast as she could. Those infernal noises are infuriating!
Lately my neighbours have been complaining of a smell. Stronger every day. And for each day more scuttling. More and more and more! Finally I could not take another empty, sleepless night. I followed the aggravating little devils one evening, just past six, from all over the flat, the ceilings above to the floorboards below, all the scuttling converged on one location. I followed my guests with my face pressed hard the the carpeted floor, making sure not to loose the sense of direction. Every fibre of my being just wanted to start punching the floor, screaming, screeching at the noise to stop.
They lead me to my bedroom. Like a hunting dog sniffing out it’s target, I continued to follow till I banged my head on the door in the corner. The airing cupboard. Slowly I outstretched my arm and turned the door handle. The door pulled towards me. It was as when I first moved in, a small square cupboard. Empty of rodents. But it was unmistakable. I could hear them, I can hear them. Scratching, scraping, gnawing, scuttling, scurrying! It was all there. It is all here!
Turning swiftly to grab something to smash at that wall, the only thing in arms reach was my clothes iron. It worked perfectly. It works perfectly. It’s large flat base cracked and dented and, within moments, smashed the wall open.
Scuttle, scurry, spooked. Pouring out of the hole like thick black shadowy mist, the wall erupted with spiders and beetles and then came the big ones, the rats and the mice. When the movement ceased, I saw it. I see it. Staring at me. A single bloodshot eye. The other socket is empty. It’s jaw freshly torn, hanging low with flesh dangling off and the remnants of a tongue just visible down the black abyss of it’s throat. It’s complexion was veined blue, spotted black and oozing red. A human corpse, torn and eaten by hundreds of insects and rodents. Feasting night after night after night.
They were still scurrying. Only now they were doing it in my flat. Visible to me. They mock me. Me! Each of the eight hairy legs tickled as the black hideous thing climbed it’s way onto my bare foot. Why do they still mock me? Why must they touch me? And why are they still making those noises?! I slowly knelt to one knee. And taking the iron tightly in my hand, I drew down on the hairy monster hard and fast. As swift as a cat and as ferocious as a hound.
Crack, crunch, snap, splurt. I hardly remember the feeling of braking my own foot with my trusty iron. I do, however, recall the lovely enjoyment of hearing sounds different to that of my guests. What a wonderful feeling it was. By the time I had regained myself from my short reprieve, I was lying on my back still clenching the iron. Hot crimson blood spreading across my wooden floor panels, leaking down the cracks. Drip, drip, drip.
I caught it in the corner of my eye. It’s black whiskers twitching in the shadows of my bed. As I turned onto my side, the rat scurried across the floor towards the door. No thinking, my brain was empty. I leapt off my good foot and as hard as I brought myself down onto the floor, my iron was even harder on the whiskered little fiend. It splattered gloriously. Only it’s tail remains intact. And now it hangs from my wall. The first of many. A man’s got to have a hobby. Right?
For the next few hours I crawled and climbed and leapt across my flat smashing, screaming, laughing, as I pounded down on my guests! Bang, bang, bang. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Splat, splat, splat. Oh what fun! The noises of death was an orchestra to my ears, occasionally ruined by the misplayed note of a scuttle, soon rectified with a Bang.
At one moment, I do recall a neighbour singing his own annoying song through my door with his own bangs that were off key to my own. When he opened my door I believe I was under my overturned sofa smashing away. When I caught his image in my eye, I was, understandably, enraged. I had to stop my music and scream at the intruder for interrupting my pleasure. “Get out! Leave! OUT!”.
Everything was quiet for a time. Peacefully silent, like the emptiness of night. I crawled back to my bed and pulled myself to the blood-stained covers. Ghostly silent. The eye still watched me. Are you judging me? You should be thanking me. Thank me! The droopy, broken jaw twitched, and swayed.
Scuttle. Scuttle. Scuttle…