Stephen Barnard is a suspense / horror writer from the north west of England. He’s been indie publishing titles for a number of years, and has a range of novels and short story collections in the genre. His latest novel, ‘No One Is Leaving’, involves a group of old friends on a reunion weekend, snowed into their accommodation with a vampire-like plus-one.
He has also published YA books, sports non-fiction and a science fantasy trilogy. He’s taught high school English for nearly 30 years and has two sons studying at university. When he’s not writing he’s binge-watching horror movies. His wife is very understanding.
Link to my Amazon page: Stephen Barnard: books, biography, latest update
THE HUMDINGER
by
Stephen Barnard
No one believed me, and then it happened again.
Not Mum, not Dad, not my older brother, Jamie. I had told them before, but they had buried the idea. Jamie laughed and called me a baby. Mum said it was just my imagination. Dad said I had to approach these things like a big boy, especially if I wanted to carry on reading books on my own before bedtime. You do know what you said can’t actually happen, Max, don’t you?
But it did happen.
The book was called The Humdinger. It was about a humming bird – referenced in the title – who was a fabulous singer, and on every page it would rhyme that word with its name. At least that was what supposedly happened. Three times now the words in the book had changed. And worse sometimes, the pictures.
But when I showed anyone else it went back to normal. Jamie said books about singing birds were for little girls, so I wasn’t going to bring it to him again. Dad might take my books away if I got too caught up in the impressive imagination which Mum was convinced I had.
It felt like I needed to deal with it myself. I picked it up to read before sleep.
The Humdinger was not a bird that night.
When I opened the cover, the first image had gone, replaced by a page that was almost black, except for the hint of something slate grey and hulking. The scratchy letters along the bottom read: In the darkest corners where spiders linger…
I thought I saw something skitter by the skirting boards. I tilted my lamp towards the closet. Something may have just disappeared behind it. Or you imagined it, you baby.
I had to be a big boy: Dad said so. I turned the next page.
A pop-up element which hadn’t been there before. Cardboard unfolded wickedly and almost poked me in the eye. A curling contraption that narrowed to a point. There was writing along its side and I tilted my head to read it. A tail as mean as a scorpion’s stinger. The lamp light cast an elongated shadow of the protrusion onto my carpet. It was a long tail that tapered all the way to a hooked barb.
Then the shadow cracked like a whip, reaching as far as the wall and then the edge of my bed. Impossible, because the book in my hand never moved.
Even when I closed it, the shadow of the tail remained on the floor, just for a few seconds.
I looked at the title again. The Humdinger. Underneath it, a pair of glowing, red eyes.
The shout rose in my throat but I held it back. I was determined to not come across as weak, especially with Jamie next door. I could hear the tinny music of a video game through the wall. I knew I could run in there and be safe. But then Jamie would taunt me with it for at least a month.
So I didn’t call him. However, I made a small concession: I bounded across the room and turned on the main light.
When I looked back at the bed, it had moved.
Upwards.
It was five inches taller than it should have been. The mattress was now higher than the edge of the bedside cabinet. And despite the bright light of the overhead bulb, there was nothing but oily blackness underneath the bed.
I couldn’t help but shriek when it tipped forward. The book slipped off and hit the carpet, landing on its spine. It fell open on a new page. In large, angry letters: A claw at the end of a gnarly finger.
The door started to creak open behind me. I thought I would take my chance to escape and just suffer the inevitable mockery from the safety of some other room.
But when I saw a hand appear on the doorframe, I froze. It was just as described in the book. The fingers gripped the wood, the hard yellow nails digging into the paint.
I turned, nearly stood on the book, leapt over it and found myself in front of the raised bed. In front of the menacing darkness underneath. I didn’t know what else to do but dive up onto it, to see if I might push it down.
As I rolled into a balanced position, my eyes met the door.
Jamie walked in. ‘I mean, what the hell, Max? Screaming like a girl. Again.’
I couldn’t help it: I had to tell him. ‘It’s the book! The Humdinger!’
Jamie laughed. ‘This thing? This little kids’ book? Shit me, Maxine.’ He picked it up and flicked through some pages, smirking.
Then he frowned; tilted his head like a confused mutt. ‘That’s a little... Jesus!’ He looked up and then back at the book. ‘Turn the page and uncage the deathbringer?’
He turned the page.
Something shot out from under the bed, something like a hook. It snared his leg. Jamie fell flat on his back, head crashing against the floor. He didn’t have time to yelp before he was dragged underneath…
***
My psychotherapist stops me with a finger. ‘Max, you know your brother ran away from home and became lost to the world. A mystery; a tragedy. But not a fairy tale.’
I squirm in the leather armchair, making it squeak. ‘It was the humdinger.’
He offers me a sympathetic smile from across his desk. ‘Max, since your childhood that book has sold two million copies. No one else has reported such things.’
‘But they haven’t read my copy…’
‘You’ve got it?’
I nod, reach down for my satchel and undo the straps. I carefully bring it out. It writhes, pulsates, kicks out a sulphurous stench. I place it on his desk. The back cover arches to allow it to inch its way towards my doctor.
His face betrays his fear.
‘Now you believe me,’ I say.