The Tapper

Every Monday, over the coming few weeks, I shall be posting short works of fiction here, and on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook.

Below is the second piece. Enjoy, and I'd love your feedback in the comments below, on my Facebook page, or on Twitter: @writerjbird.

The Tapper

The figurine sat before me upon my examination table, the illumination of the candles placed at either side flickering upon its face, weakly lighting that visage. The eyes of that crudely formed clay statuette contained some measure of sentient quality. That apparent consciousness beckoned to me, as though wishing to sate some primordial desire for attention that it had lacked for a great deal of time.

A tapping upon my elbow then came, disrupting the sanctity of my concentration. I brushed at that annoyance, seeking to push it away, yet was unable to contact the hand responsible for that interruption. Looking about I saw no one in the dimly lit room, the majority of which lay behind me.

Perhaps it was the maid my wife had hired. Why she felt we needed such a wench of shrewish quality was beyond the grasp of my comprehension. That slattern serving woman was always popping in and out of rooms, silent upon her feet so that none were aware of her presence. Annoyance began to grow and fester with in me as I supposed this was yet another instance of her unholy spectral movement.

My mind and attention were soon drawn back to the diminutive, earthenware figure I had been studying only moments earlier. I shifted it slightly, so that the light from my candles would succeed in dispelling the strange shadows that clung to the rest of the vaguely humanish form. Odd, as the greater portion of the little doll remained cloaked in shadow. I raised it to the nearer candle so that the glow of the flame would have no choice but to fully illuminate the figurine, yet, no improvement came. The shadows about that object in my hand retained their previous depth of darkness, causing within me an involuntary, unsettling shiver.

Once more came a tapping, this time atop my shoulder. I had heard no opening of the door at my back. Nor had I heard any footstep or other sound of motion that would have betrayed the existence of another entering my study.

The near certainty that I was alone wrestled with the insistence from my shoulder that someone had indeed tapped upon it. How both possibilities could be true was to my logical mind utter foolishness. Yet, the evidence for both existed. One had to be true and the other false, yes and no, right and wrong. It was a basic concept, soothing in its mathematical simplicity.

Repressing the building apprehension in my soul as best as I was mentally and physically able, I once again placed my eyes upon the rudimentary figure. By tilting it to varying angles, keeping it continuously in motion I was at last able to view a greater measure of its form. Though simple, the tiny clay person in my hands was a clear enough representation of a human female, anatomically correct in a crude fashion. Remains of what appeared to be an ancient silk robe, now sadly faded, resided in the more pronounced nooks and crannies of the figurine. Fragments of soil clung to those whispers of fabric, remnants of the grave from which I had excavated the doll. For the period in which I presumed it had been made, it was admirable, possibly even exquisite to any capable of seeing past its superficial imperfections.

A hard wrapping then came upon the back of my head, right at the base, where skull and spine unite. It was as though the knuckles of a child's fist had struck me in a similar fashion to how a small fist would knock upon a door. The sensation of each strike lingered in my head, slowly fading, emphasizing to me some as yet unknown point. What manner of person was this?

I turned, the shout for who could only be my wife freezing upon my lips as I surveyed the whole of the room. It was empty. Save for the usual clutter of my archeologist's collection of tools and other oddments related to my trade, there was nothing. No other person visibly occupied the room, yet the sense that I was not alone took a strong hold upon my heart. I slowly turned in a circle upon my heel, once more examining the entirety of my study chamber. Still, no other was to be seen.

What manner of entity was assaulting me? I was certain it was another person, yet the inability to catch sight of the guilty party was playing with ever growing force upon my nerves, as though it was a piano player reaching the crescendo of the piece he played.

The sound of movement came then, a soft whisper from behind me, almost a physical caress in its quality. I turned as quickly as I was able to catch the culprit before he or she could once more vanish. Again, no one was there. Not so much as a shadowed outline of a figure was present.

A breath then came from behind me. Had this fiend who plagued me been able to move so fast as to stay at my back? Clearly this one was fleet of foot if so capable of evading my eyes and mirroring my movements with such nimble ease. Once more I spun, an accusatory cry upon my lips, and once more I found my self visibly alone.

Warm breath then touched the back of my neck. A chill, inspired by that exhalation froze me in place. I was left fully unable to move, and my attempt at a whimper whined from between my lips in a most pathetic manner.

A child's ghostly words were then whispered in my ear,causing me to faint dead away as I heard them.

"Want me dolly back."

Jonathan Birdsall