Like a living thing it lurked in the spare room quietly clicking away to itself. No one knew about it save for the boy and he told no one. What would have been the point of telling? Had he told they would have called him mad, a strange child with a tenuous grip on reality, the adults would have remarked. Sometimes even he doubted the existence of the thing. During the day the room stood silent and empty except for the presence of a chest of drawers, a single bed and a wardrobe. The homely presence of the furniture, solid and dependable reassured him during daylight that all was right with the world. When the sun shonne on the walls the horses imprinted on the wall paper filled the child with delight. He imagined them galloping across sunlit green fields their long mains blowing in the wind.
At night the thing came. Click, click it said, crouching in the corner coiled and ready to pounce. It never left it’s lair but the knowledge of the loathsome presence filled him with dread, Click, click, waiting patiently in the dark for it’s prey.
Looking back he never could recall having entered the room. Some how or other he was there in the presence of the unspeakable clicking entity. It never spoke, perhaps it was incapable of speech, the thing merely bided it’s time and when the time was right struck like a beast launching itself upon his prey. Click, click the machine whispered to itself it’s tentacles reaching for the boy’s neck. Choking he fought with the thing. It was strong but he always managed to wriggle away somehow. Perhaps it wanted him to escape. Like a cat which takes pleasure in catching a mouse, releasing it and giving chase once more the thing would let him go only to wait, patiently for the next tussle.
He called it the strangling machine on account of it’s propensity to choke him. Click, click, click, the sound echoed down the years.
