“Fantastic imagination your kid’s got,” the emergency plumber said. “Reminds me of my two when they were ‘is age. Always makin’ things up. Really convincin’ too, told our vicar that the people next door was wanted by the coppers! That took some explainin’, I tell you…”
I smiled, mostly to hide the grimace at the amount it had cost to get him out on a Sunday morning.
“Oh yes?” I said, deciding politeness was better than screaming. “What did he tell you?”
“Said that large stain on the plasterboard were ‘is friend, William,” he replied, “an’ that I were lucky to see ‘im, normally no-one else can.”
I sighed. Our son was seven years old, and should be growing out of imaginary friends soon, we hoped.
“I ‘ave to say,” he continued, “it’s what you get though in ‘ouses with early types of central ‘eating. Lots of rust in the pipes an’ odd routes through the wall. Guess in one way you was lucky it went whilst you was away; least it’s dried out an’ you can redecorate today. Anyway, thanks, and any trouble, give us a shout?”
I saw him out, then went back into the living room. Jake was sitting on our still-packed suitcases, mid-conversation. I suppose it did look a bit like a rough outline of a person, if you were being especially creative.
“Come on, lad,” I said, “I’ve got to cover that up – let’s have a snack first and then you can help, eh? The man said that you thought it was William?”
Jake looked up at me earnestly. “Oh no, Daddy. That’s just what I told him.”
Relief flooded through me. “So, it’s definitely not him?”
“No, Daddy,” he said patiently as if explaining something to an idiot. “That’s not William. That’s The Bloodied Man.”
I stopped in my tracks as my wife walked in.
“Don’t use language like that sweetie,” she said, kissing him on the top of the head. “Here, have a cookie and then you can help Daddy with the painting.”
“S’not rude, Mummy,” he protested. “That’s his name. He lives in the wall. He says he was put there by someone who used to live here.”
She laughed and handed him his food as I went to hunt for the brushes.
—
The next morning the stain was as visible as it had been before, and Jake was talking again. “He says you shouldn’t paint over him,” he said. I smiled patiently and got the rollers out again.
—
At three AM, Jake came into our bedroom.
“Daddy, The Bloodied Man is in my room,” he said, “you need to come see him.” My wife sighed and rolled over as I threw back the covers.
“Ok, let’s go have a look.”
I opened his bedroom door, and turned on the light. On the wall was a rust-red mark, in the shape of a figure holding a carving knife.
“He wants you dead, now,” Jake growled as his eyes flashed red.
