In London, no-one can hear you scream...
I used to live in a shared house. One night a bunch of my friends came over to my pad for drinks on the decking. Sophisticated buggers, I hear you thinking. Well, to keep the night down to earth we stayed off the Pimms and drank lager straight out of the Can.

Anyhow, I digress. Fun was being had, beer was being drank and hacky sack was being played. Eventually, it being British summer, it got a bit nippy so we dragged ourselves inside to watch a DVD. At about midnight (lame, I know) everyone's getting a bit sleepy/drunk/sick of each other, so the peeps head off to get the last tube. And this, dear friends, is where life got really fucking weird. Weirder than pants made of fluff.

There was a rug in my hallway. I had previously thought it was just there for aesthetic purposes - but as everyone was walking down the hall I accidentally scuffed it up. So, I bent down and picked it up to re-lay it. And bugger me if there wasn’t a fucking TRAP DOOR there! I'm a curious soul so I found the handle and pulled it open.

Shit. Oshitoshitoshit, SHIT. There were stairs. And the lights were on. A horror movie style gust of air blew in to my face (coincidentally, a gust of air chose that time to race down my trouser legs). My so-called friend suddenly started encouraging me to go down there. Being the brave boy that I am, I slammed the door closed, threw the rug over it, and pushed my friends politely but firmly out of the house.

Now everyone had gone. I was alone in the house (everyone else was in Italy, or Birmingham). I sat in the lounge, calmly trying to drink myself in to a coma. Every little noise was making me jumpy. My phone rang, and my best mate was screaming "Swallow your soul!" down the line at me. I hung up, cursing his name. By now it was really getting late, so I decided to retire to bed.

Problem. The rug (concealing the trap door) was in the way. I am now really freaked out by this, so I took a running jump over it. Elated at not being got by whatever monstrous entity that surely lived down there, I went in to my room and climbed in to bed. Lights off. Nighty night world, God bless me.

Scritch.

One eye opened. Whatthefuckwasthat?

Scritchscritch.

Both eyes opened now. I actually felt the click as the sluice gates in my adrenaline glands opened, and felt my hair bristle as my body decided whether it should fight or fly.

Scritchscritchscritchrustle.

I pulled the covers right up to my neck. “Who’s there?” I stammered, afraid that I would actually get a reply. I sat for a full minute, straining my ears to hear the sound again. Gone. I scared it off! Time to get back to sleep. I bedded myself down, and closed my eyes. I began to drift off.

Scritchscritchscritchscritchrustlerustlescritch.

Louder now. By the door. The monster is snuffling at the door. Not on my watch, pal. If you want my brains, you have to fight for them. Grabbing my cricket bat, I turned the light on, ran to the door, threw it open and brandished the cricket bat with all the might of W.G. Grace himself. Except in pants, obviously.

Nothing there. The monster in the corridor was only conspicuous by his absence. I looked left and right. I was safe. Twice in one night I had warned off the supernatural – they knew I was not to be messed with. I could now sleep in peace. Back to bed, then. I turned off the light, closed my eyes and:

Scritchscritchscritchrustlescritchrustle.

Fuck me, it’s under my fucking bed. Light on, drop to knees. Nothing. “Fuck this for a game of soldiers “, I thought, “I’m out of here.” I threw some clothes in a bag, pulled on some jeans, and left, the ghostly intruder still at large. I fled to my friend’s house, who continued to torment me in to the hours of dawn.

Returning to the house the next day, I bumped in to a housemate who had been out the night before. Trying to act casual, I asked her if she’d ever heard any strange scritchy noises in the house.

“You know what? I did one night. It really freaked me out, I saw something dart across the floor and then the sounds started.”

Thank God! I am not mad!

“Yes,” she said “It’s the mouse.”

A mouse? A fucking mouse? I lost a nights sleep, control of my bowels and a good deal of my already shaky sanity over a mouse? I went back to my room, saw the little claw marks in the carpet and then saw the source of my problem. An open packet of Doritos, lying on the floor. That explained the rustling sound.

Sometimes, things are best left unexplained. A mousetrap was bought post-haste, but the little devil always eluded me...
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 11:36, 4 replies)

So
did you ever go down through the trapdoor?
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 11:55, closed)

...
What about the trapdoor?! Don't say you just left it...

(edit: Beaten. Damn. Tell!)
(Mr. In-Between has regretted posting this ever since, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 11:56, closed)

I did.
An old car battery, some strong and some guttering. Not the hell hole I had envisaged!
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 4 Jul 2008, 12:08, closed)

Wierder than pants made of fluff....
and ultimately more ushelesh...

JAM TROUSHERSH ;o)

We had an invasion of field mice a few years ago. Being devoid of logic, I put the nightly scritchiness down to the paranormal. On finding mouse droppings in a kitchen cupboard, I assumed a packet of wild rice had been spilled.

Eventually, acceptance dawned and a humane mouse trap was purchased, duly baited with chocolate spread. I kept my furry captives in an old fish tank of DG's overnight, then released them in the countryside the following day.

One morning, we awoke to an empty tank. Where had the squeaky little fucker gone? Then we spotted the place in the tank where Squeaky Houdini had chewed his way to freedom....

There were three small air-holes near the top of the tank
O O
_O
Captain Squeakycunt had chewed through the plastic right in the middle of the holes, leaving a Mickey Mouse shaped gap through which to escape. "Hat off to him for style and ingenuity", I thought.

Then stomped off to the garden centre to purchase a Nasty Killy Trap. No more Ms Nice Lady.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Sat 5 Jul 2008, 13:00, closed)