The Man With No Face (3 page)

When I finally pushed out my hand and touched the bottom of the door, I almost cried with relief. With trembling legs I slowly pulled myself up and wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand. I wasn’t going to give Colin the satisfaction of seeing that he’d upset me.

Without much hope I started to rap lightly on the door. I was amazed when I heard the key turn and saw the door open after just the first few taps. Colin greeted me with an unconvincing laugh.

“Well done, Rod,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “You said you could do it and you did.”

It was then that I spotted Aunt Carrie by the kitchen door, with a tea towel in her hand. Colin’s little show had been for her benefit.

“Did you lock Roderick in the cellar?” she said.

“Of course not,” said Colin, like the natural liar he is.

“Yes, you did,” she said; “I’ve just seen you unlock the door. Well, no more cellar for you today. That’s for sure.”

Colin knew better than to protest because he didn’t want her telling his dad. I breathed a sigh of relief.

That night, as Colin and I lay in our beds in the dark, and I was just about to fall asleep, he suddenly whispered, “You very nearly got me into trouble, you did.”

That was typical. I could have broken my neck because of him and he says I nearly got
him
into trouble.

“But I didn’t,” I said, “because I didn’t scream and I didn’t go moaning to your mum and dad.”

“And I suppose you think that makes you tough?” said Colin. I could just imagine the sneer on his face. “Well, let me tell you it doesn’t,” he went on. “You were only brave because you didn’t know about the little man with no face. You won’t be so brave next time.”

We lay there, silently, in the dark bedroom. He was waiting for me to ask, and I was waiting for him to tell me.

He cracked first. Sort of.

“I suppose you want me to tell you about him?” he said, finally.

“If you want,” I said, trying to fake a yawn and suppress the lump in my throat at the same time.

“Well,” he said, “if you’re sure you can take it. The story is”-and here he dropped his voice to an eerie whisper-“that the cellar is haunted. The legend goes back to the Middle Ages …”

Now I was pretty certain the Middle Ages came well before Victorian houses, but I didn’t interrupt. Despite myself, I wanted to hear the story.

“…when-at various times-several servants were found dead in that cellar.”

I licked my lips moist. “They fell down the steps?”

“Worse,” said Colin, scarcely able to hide his enjoyment,
“much
worse. They all died of fright; in the dark. Their hair had turned white.”

“But that was a long time ago,” I said, partly to reassure myself.

“He’s still there, though, they say,” said Colin. “Only he sleeps all the time now. Except when someone’s down there without a light.”

There was a short pause. “Don’t you want to know why he’s called ‘the little man with no face’?” he asked.

Of course I wanted to know, desperately.

“Well, you see,” he said, without waiting for an answer, “he’s got a perfectly smooth, round head-with no hair, or ears, or eyes. If he gets you he grabs hold of you by the wrist with his bony little fingers and runs your hand over his face. It’s just like feeling a warm, slightly tacky balloon, except that your fingers sink in a bit…”