The Identical Boy by Matthew Stott Read Free Book Online Page B

following him. No one that he could see, at least. The vegetation hid any pursuer.
    He pushed on. Faster now. The whispering grasses swinging back and forth in front of him, almost as though they were trying to shoo him backwards. Like they were in on it.
    A new sound. Low. Guttural. Hungry.
    Mark ran, or tried to run, but the grasses were so tall and thick it was like running through water. Worse than that. Every step threatened to halt his progress, to pull him to the ground. Finally, the grasses had their way, and Mark tumbled forward, the ground coming up to meet him. The grasses swallowed him, hiding the sky, hiding the fence. Hiding escape.
    Mark gasped as he hit dirt, the air knocked from his chest, the world spinning. He curled up for a moment, listened, tried to peer into the darkened, alien world he now found himself in. He could see no sign of the thing following him, no further guttural sounds. Pulling a lungful of air, Mark pushed at the Earth to try and get back to his feet.
    A hand caught hold of his ankle.
    Mark screamed.
    It was a mad scream. Panic embraced him as he wiggled and kicked back again and again until finally his ankle came free and he ran for the fence as though his very life depended upon it.
    He knew that it did.
    A few minutes later, and Mark’s trembling hand tried once, twice, a third time to insert the key into his front door, his eyes darting over each shoulder in turn as the everyday became suddenly impossible and terrible. The key struck wood once again and tumbled to the front doorstep. Cursing, Mark grabbed for it, finally managing to slot it home. He turned the key and almost fell across the threshold, throwing the door closed and sliding the deadbolt home.
    He was inside. He was safe.
    Mark staggered back, breath ragged, and looked at the closed and barred front door, at the thick, opaque glass panel set into the door’s top third, looking for any sign of his stalker stepping into view. Seconds that felt like minutes crept past, the world a noisy pounding in his ears.
    Nothing.
    Mark turned and made his way to the kitchen, to the back door. He tried the handle; it was locked. Good. He peered through the glass into the back garden; it was empty.
    He sat for a second to catch his breath, to slow down his racing heart. He was alone in the house, would be for hours. His Mum was on the late shift at the pub where she worked. It would be after three by the time she got home. Mark’s sister was at her Dad’s for the rest of the week.
    So Mark sat in the silence of his house, and he listened.
    It was irrational now, surely? To be scared. He was inside. The doors locked. No way in. He was safe.
    The hairs on the back of his neck didn’t seem to believe that.
    Mark scraped back the chair he was sat on and went through to the front room. He grabbed the remote and turned on the television—anything to break up the oppressive silence, to interrupt his whirling imagination.
    What was it that had been following him? Sam, he assumed—no, he knew . He hadn’t seen Sam, hadn’t seen anything at all, but he knew. But what did that make Sam?  He was no ordinary boy; that was obvious. Mark didn’t believe in monsters, but—
    Metal screeched. Mark’s heart missed a beat.
    He stood. In the background people were discussing houses they were doing up to sell on. Probably only need to sink a couple of grand into refurbishment, they thought.
    screeeech
    Mark stepped into the corridor, towards the front door. There was a shadow across the glass panel. Shoulders. A head.
    screeeech
    The letter box squeaked again, metal-sharp, running a fingernail down Mark’s spine. A small hand slid through the letter box and into the corridor, fingers wiggling.
    ‘Go away, or else! Or else … I’ll—’
    A finger crooked, beckoned Mark forward. He grabbed an umbrella from its place propped against the wall and swung at the hand again and again until it retreated, sliding back out of the letterbox, the flap