Readers who were sensitive to the inclusion of preadolescent children in the preceding story shall be relieved to find this one situated in a secondary school, namely St Swithun’s boarding school for boys in Shropshire, which, from the time he was twelve to his sixteenth birthday, served as Marvin’s not-so-happy home for thirty-six weeks out of the year. 

It should come as no surprise that my cousin’s schooling was marked by a steady stream of mishaps, coincidences, and unsolved mysteries. Probably one would be able to say the same of any place which confined Marvin long enough, given the reliability with which the uncanny enters his orbit. Yet the grounds of St Swithun’s seemed particularly fertile in this respect. One might fill an entire book with the claims Marvin has made regarding those four years alone. For the sake of narrowing our attention, I shall prioritise the episode which always seems to frighten audiences most in the retelling, and therefore the one Marvin is most often wont to repeat. 

After a childhood spent thriving in the maelstrom of our nation’s capital, the day that Marvin’s parents disclosed their plans for his higher education in the remote countryside was the worst of his then-short life by a considerable margin. Located in the heart of the sprawling Shropshire Hills, St Swithun’s was, in every sense, uncharted territory for a city boy. Generally the student body hailed from old-money landowning families whose claim to the surroundings carried back generations, and who were not receptive of outsiders interloping from the south. In spite of his already admirable social acumen, physically speaking Marvin at that age was something of a late bloomer, and with everything from his manner of dress to his manner of speech being possessed of the frippery of his upbringing, one might say he made a natural target – a quality which was not lost on his new classmates.

Of the veritable rogue’s gallery of ruffians, delinquents, and outright lunatics whom St Swithun’s counted among its alumni, none were more egregious in their campaign against city-folk than the unholy trinity better known as Sampson, Tippett, and Villiers-Cundy. They found Marvin on his second day, lost in the several acres between the boarding house and the classrooms, and what seemed at first to be the kindly offer of a newcomer’s tour turned out to consist of a nonconsensual piggy-back ride across the shoulders of the leader, Sampson, which culminated with Marvin being tossed into a very large mud puddle. 

Having assessed the situation, as Marvin saw it the only hope for one in his position was to establish his own dominance by seeking out an even feebler boy to personally torment. Enter Gerald Mincent, a pastor’s son from Bristol who had all the physical constitution of a soft-boiled egg, and the unfortunate tendency to faint under duress. Spying the little fellow wandering the schoolyard one lunchtime early on, Marvin saw his chance. Quickly he ran to an idle Sampson to cheerfully suggest that the two of them bury the hatchet by collaborating in giving Mincent the kind of kicking he so clearly deserved. 

“Capital idea, Jameson,” Sampson replied cordially. “I was just thinking how you and I had gotten off on the wrong foot lately. You go and fetch him, and I’ll do the rest.” 

When Marvin had presented Mincent before Sampson, who was flanked as always by his two cronies, he implored the group to hurry up and let the little louse have it. Hearing this, Mincent promptly fainted, sending his rotund body tumbling backwards like a bowling ball, and Marvin the pin. 

Needless to say the effort backfired rather badly. But for the timely interference of the school’s strictest disciplinarian, Master Payne, who just so happened to be on patrol, my cousin’s story might have ended altogether with him slowly losing air beneath Mincent’s unconscious form while Sampson and company launched a savage attack on his available body parts.

Yet what could have been a run-of-the-mill beating ended up forming an unlikely alliance between Marvin and his would-be patsy. The two soon found that they had much in common beyond their mutual unpopularity, Mincent being a keen artist whose depth of imagination could almost rival Marvin’s, and generally possessed of an intellectual curiosity uncommon to his age. Although joining forces did nothing to hinder the harassment they both received, and if anything, made them a more sizable target, each was relieved to have found some fellowship so far from home. 

Indeed, Art soon became the favourite subject of both boys, not least because it easily comprised the most peaceful two hours of their school week. Concluding the Friday timetable with a double period, by which point the more boisterous students were generally too tired to bother anyone, the lessons were helmed in the sizable basement studio by one Mister Pringle, a gentle yet absent-minded man and perhaps the only adult in the entire institution with whom either boy felt truly safe. 

Best of all, Marvin and Gerald were seated together at the very back row while Sampson, Tippett, and Villiers-Cundy sat at the front, and when the final bell would come, the latter three, evidently having as little regard for Art as they did for most things besides being contemptible, would run straight upstairs and outside to play football, rather than loiter in search of prey as they usually did of an afternoon.

Such was the sympathy between Pringle, Marvin, and Gerald that a tradition developed on Fridays wherein, after the lesson was over, Pringle would let the two boys hang around and make use of the studio while he went about his remaining duties. Most often this entailed the duo working on The St Swithun’s Screw, a satirical publication illustrated by Gerald and co-written by both which took aim at their various enemies within the school, but there was also A Beginner’s Guide to Monsters, a sort of encyclopaedia based on Gerald’s habitual doodling of fantastic creatures in the borders of his exercise book, for which Marvin would devise elaborate descriptions. 

We should be thankful that Mister Pringle was largely oblivious to these details, for certain contents of The St Swithun’s Screw in particular would have doubtless offended even his liberal sensibilities. The extent of his supervision in those after-school sessions was to infrequently take a look while passing by the boys’ desk, smile via a polite furrowing of his moustache, and remark that Gerald was making great strides as an artist. Sometimes he would even disappear entirely for long periods, heading upstairs for some vague unstated purpose to leave the studio in full custody of the two boys, notwithstanding the occasional cameo from the building’s caretaker to sweep up about their feet.

All through that first term, the Friday club served as a rare respite for Marvin and Gerald alike, and remained mercifully secret from their tormentors. That is until one day when Tippett, returning to retrieve something forgotten in his haste to get to football, stumbled onto it, and just like that the game was up. When the boys left the Art studio early that same evening it was to find Sampson, Tippett, and Villiers-Cundy waiting for them outside. This time after doling out the customary thrashing, the fiends ransacked their victims’ bags to retrieve the pages from Screw and the Beginner’s Guide which Gerald and Marvin had that day produced.

As Tippet and Villiers-Cundy restrained the authors, Sampson skimmed through the pages, chortling, his eyes gleaming at the choice discovery. But as he arrived at one particular section, his face contorted, something like bewilderment passing over his features before they settled into a peculiar smile and he let out another chortle, only hoarser this time. He screwed up the page in question and placed it for unknown reasons in his pocket, nodding as he did so. Then he cleared his throat.

“You two are jolly clever. I don’t know how you come up with this stuff. Jolly good drawings. Was it you who did those?” 

This was directed at Gerald, who nodded sheepishly. 

“Jolly good work. And you, Jameson, you’re the writer? Jolly good job there too. You fellows ought to give yourselves a pat on the back. Really, go on! Let them loose, lads. That’s right, go ahead. Pats on the back all round, what fun. No shame taking pride in your achievements, eh? No shame at all.” 

Here Sampson crossed his arms and stroked his chin, as if mulling something over. 

“Hmm, it’s not exactly sporting, though, is it? I mean, anyone might get the idea you’re not so fond of me. Here’s me thinking we’ve been giving you boys a proper country welcome.” 

At Marvin’s reaction, a loud and scornful scoff, Sampson bore down on him uncomfortably closely until their foreheads were almost touching.

“What is it, Jameson? Something you’ve been wanting to say to me, or are you going to let your little scribblings do all the talking?” 

When Marvin nodded, Sampson laughed so heartily that his cronies began to join in too. “I love you, Jameson. Do you know that? If you weren’t so blasted ugly, I think I’d marry you. Then we could be together all the time.” 

After that, he broke my cousin’s arm in two separate places. 

Naturally the three perpetrators all testified that the injury was the accidental result of an innocent bit of horseplay gone wrong. In any given year there was, after all, no shortage of such incidents at St Swithun’s. The school sent Marvin home early and Gerald was left to spend the remaining ten days of term back where he started, without a friend in the world.

Curiously enough, however, over the next week, Sampson and company largely left him alone. He wondered whether perhaps the assault on Marvin had gone too far even for their sadistic tastes, presuming, that is, that anything could. Yet more than once he caught them lingering around the place, speaking in low voices, and when they noticed Gerald nearby they would cease talking, smile, and quickly disperse. It began to feel obvious that they were plotting something, but Gerald was nearing his wits’ end and felt himself fundamentally powerless. His only recourse as he saw it was to try and keep his head down and avoid proximity to the three boys at all costs until half term finally came.

Things seemed to be working in his favour until the final Friday morning, when Gerald’s long journey to his beloved Art began as always with his dreaded Physical Education. The school changing rooms were never a pleasant experience, but the poor lad’s heart nearly skipped a beat that day when, in the midst of undressing, he turned around to see Sampson striding cheerily towards him through the crowd, naked as the day but for a pair of boxer shorts. 

“Odd socks, Mincent?” Sampson cried. “But you must have heard what Pop-In Roger does to boys who wear odd socks?”

Gerald looked down shamefully, for it was true that he had inadvertently paired a black sock with a white one that morning, not noticing until he had already arrived at first registration. Either colour was acceptable within the school’s strict uniform regulations, but together they constituted a crime worthy of detention from Master Payne. 

“Ah, but then I suppose they don’t teach you that sort of thing back in the big city, do they? No cause for it in the big city. Well, you’ve got to know about it out here. You’ve got to keep your wits about you, especially this time of year. This is Pop-In Roger’s favourite season. And you such a fan of monsters, Mincent. I would have thought you… well, no fear, anyway – good thing I’m here. What are friends for, eh?” 

Sampson took a seat on the bench, bringing the bewildered Gerald down with him via a strong arm over his shoulder. 

“Round here, mummies and daddies have been telling stories of Pop-In Roger to their little kiddies for years. He’s a big, hairy chap, more beast than man, you know, could probably pop your head off with one swipe of his claws and hardly think twice about it, and the thing of it is, well, I’m not sure anybody quite knows why in the end, but he’s awfully angry, I mean he’s jolly well furious whenever he sees anything that’s out of place: an untidy bedroom, a broken milk bottle, salt in the sugar bowl, that sort of thing. So he prowls around the hills looking for houses who’ve left their doors unlocked, so that he can come in and make sure there’s nothing around to make him angry. Come to think of it, that must be why they call him Pop-In Roger, eh, Mincent? He pops in, has a look around, and just as long as everything’s spic and span, he pops right off again to check the next house. But if it isn’t? If Pop-In Roger does get angry… well. Then you’re not so lucky.” 

Sampson squeezed Gerald’s arm and winked at him. 

“But odd socks are the worst of all. Ask anyone. Odd socks drive him mad as a hound. Sometimes, he’ll steal a boy’s shoes just so he can check what socks he’s got on! We can all remember a time or two where we left our muddy boots out to dry overnight and woke up the next day to find ‘em gone, can’t we, lads? Why, just the other day, Gamston over there had his slippers nabbed from his dorm room. Jolly good luck for him he was up to snuff sock-wise or Pop-In Roger would have had his due. If you’re lucky, he’ll just take your feet, keep you from ever upsetting him again. But catch him on a bad day and he’d just as soon snuff you completely. Suck your blood dry and do away with the bones. There’s a lot of kids go missing in the hills this time of year. His time.” 

Abruptly Samson clapped Gerald on the back. 

“Not to worry though, eh? I mean, you’ve got a spare change of socks right there in your kit. You keep them on all day and you’ll keep all your blood to yourself. Never say I don’t do you any favours, eh?” 

At some point, while Sampson had been speaking, Gerald’s pudgy hands had balled themselves into fists at his sides, and so they remained until he noticed and watched them untighten again. Somehow everything had been tolerable until Sampson’s bare flesh had touched his own. Yet Gerald had done nothing, said nothing, just as he always did.

He lingered in the changing room for some time, staring down at his own improper footwear while his classmates exited one by one around him. Perhaps it was a point of pride that Gerald stepped out onto the field wearing the odd socks after all. In spite of the inevitable scolding it netted him from the PE teacher, as well as the copious fearmongering from Sampson and his ilk, which subsequently persisted throughout the entire morning’s hockey game, for the first time in his life Gerald felt the rush of defiance. 

Of course he swapped the offending socks for a clean pair after the game, but still the damage was done. For the rest of the day Sampson, Tippett, and Villiers-Cundy kept promising with ever more glee that Pop-In Roger was not happy and would certainly be coming to get him. The story was, in principle, no different from the trio’s usual teasing, but its strangeness stoked Gerald’s curiosity. On the one hand, it seemed too specific and barefaced to be an outright lie, and Gerald was too imaginative to dismiss it outright. Yet he would sooner take the word of a talking scorpion over the likes of Sampson. 

Through casual inquiry among the local boys who would humour him, Gerald was able to confirm that there was a genuine folktale matching Sampson’s description, although the details differed depending on the teller. For starters, some knew the figure as Pop-Down Roger, Slip-In Roger, or Knock-Knock Roger. Some said he only came after right-handed boys, and was allergic to the left-handed. Others said that he could only enter odd-numbered houses. Others said he could be warded off by leaving a candle burning on the doorstep overnight. Some said he drank blood, others that he ate rags, some that he was a werewolf, others a bipedal insect. 

At any rate, the fact the story was not a whole cloth invention of Sampson’s was enough to satisfy Gerald that the interaction had been a whimsical attempt to frighten him, and nothing more. Feeling utterly exhausted by the afternoon, he had never looked forward to an Art lesson more, and arrived at the basement studio heavy with relief. 

But when he entered the room, his stomach lurched. Sampson was sitting at Gerald and Marvin’s desk looking positively joyful. It seemed that his usual desk partner in the front row had taken a nasty fall at lunchtime and was in a rather bad state in the infirmary. With Marvin gone, this left Gerald and Sampson the only two boys in the class without a partner, and Mister Pringle, for all his friendliness, was not so tuned to the social relations of his students as to know better than to pair them up. 

Seeing Gerald’s hesitation, Pringle began to ask what the matter was, only for Sampson to leap from his seat and usher his new partner to the desk in a show of politeness. 

“Tired from PE this morning, eh, Mincent?” he boomed. “Corker of a tackle you made in the second half! No fear, let’s give you a hand!” Escorting Gerald with a firm grip on the shoulder, now he whispered in the boy’s ear. “Still got both your feet, I see. Enjoy that while it lasts. Be lucky if there’s anything left once Roger’s had his way with you.”

The aim of the lesson was for the class to complete work on the self-portraits which they had begun the previous week. They were permitted to choose their own medium, and Gerald had opted for his favourite, ink and watercolour, with only minor details left for completion today. He had hoped to spend the rest of the lesson time, as well as the after-school session, remaking the pages of his and Marvin’s projects which Sampson had destroyed to post as a get-well gift to Marvin over the half term break. Now it would have to wait, presuming that Sampson was planning to let Gerald leave at all. 

As Gerald carefully refined his self-portrait, Sampson pretended to do the same with his own, a childlike work of oil and acrylic, disturbing in its crudeness, which he had long since ceased bothering to improve. In fact he was occupied with anything but, the relative anonymity of his new position at the back of the classroom no doubt thrilling to someone of his low character. Hiding behind the sizable canvas, Sampson spent most of the lesson carving obscenities into the desk, doodling in his exercise book, investigating the contents of his nostrils, and most of all, tormenting Gerald. 

“Jolly good portrait that, Mincent. You’ve really captured your rugged good looks. Maybe old Pringle’ll send it home to your mother after Roger pays you a visit. Something to remember you by, eh?” 

You should understand by now that Gerald was a very patient boy, sensitive and naturally averse to conflict, especially as compared with most his age. But even a grown adult with the patience of a saint would have struggled to tolerate a full two hours stuck beside Sampson. Any attempt to respond to his cruel comments would inevitably trap the listener in some even more painful interaction. Yet if Gerald ignored the verbal jabs, Sampson would instead proceed physically, kicking at his shins under the desk, stabbing at his hands with an unbent paperclip while he tried to paint, even leaving an upturned tack on his stool when Gerald went to fetch more water, and generally doing everything possible to make each remaining minute of the school day seem to last for an eternity. 

I don’t quite know how Gerald managed to control himself for so long, yet control himself he did until, miraculously, the classroom clock showed only ten more minutes before the bell. As Mister Pringle made the rounds checking everyone’s work, having dispensed some trivial praise to Sampson’s motley creation, he took some time admiring Gerald’s before remarking as always that the boy had made great strides this term.

“Oh, jolly great strides,” Sampson murmured, once Pringle was distant enough. “I think the old bird’s got a soft spot for you, Mincent. You’ll want to sleep with one eye open tonight. Pop-In Roger’s going to have to join the queue!” 

Gerald gritted his teeth and focused all his attention on the second hand of the clock as it edged him bit by bit towards the promise of freedom. At the top of the classroom, Pringle was making his closing remarks for the day, beginning with a review of all the group had covered that term. To Gerald’s right, Sampson was bristling with energy, jigging his leg up and down, barely able to contain his excitement over the new line of mockery. 

“So that’s what you’ve been up to down here, after school! You and that louse, Jameson! Everybody’s been saying it but I never believed it was actually true! I always took you for a coward, Mincent, but a pansy? Your painting’s no good at all; you look far too manly! I think it needs adjusting, give it here –” 

As Sampson reached across the desk, Gerald seized his wrist, and that was all it took. As the eyes of the class fell upon the tangle of jostling fists at the back of the room, there was not a pupil present who was not utterly shocked, though doubtless not unhappily, to see that the bloody-nosed boy being pinned to the floor and crying for help between his yelps of distress was not little Mincent, but Sampson himself. 

Of course no help was offered, for even Tippett and Villiers-Cundy were struck dumb by the sight of their leader’s trouncing, while Mister Pringle simply watched in beady-eyed shock. The commotion must have been loud enough, for soon Mister Payne came bounding down the basement steps, announcing himself by his customary bellow, to pull the thrashing boys away from each other. 

Suffice it to say that the class was dismissed a few minutes early that day, and while Sampson had to be physically restrained in the capable hands of Mister Payne, Gerald simply stood in place behind Pringle as the two men talked heatedly. Sampson was yelling all kinds of things, his voice frenzied and high-pitched, but they fell on deaf ears. Staring at his own battered knuckles, the sole thought repeating itself like a stuck record in Gerald’s mind was that he could not believe he hadn’t fainted. 

Soon Payne was dragging Sampson kicking and screaming upstairs, while Pringle, seeming very frazzled, fell into his desk chair and beckoned for Gerald to take a seat next to him. 

“That took some convincing,” Pringle uttered wearily. “Mister Payne wanted to take you both to detention. I persuaded him it was best to keep you separate, that I should carry out your punishment here myself.” He sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead in the manner of one in the throes of a migraine. 

“Are we still doing Art club?” Gerald asked. 

Pringle opened one eye and gave a wry smile. “Hardly a club with just the two of us. Besides, what sort of a punishment is that?”

When Gerald professed that he deserved no punishment, that it was about time somebody gave Sampson a taste of his own medicine, and proceeded to rattle off a list of all the terrible things which Sampson had done lately, Pringle raised a hand to silence him. “When one takes the law into his own hands, it doesn’t matter three skips of a louse what his reasons are. Laws are laws. They tell us what to do precisely to keep us from wrestling with our own desires. You’re ever so young, Mincent. Ever so young. Soon you’ll go through all the usual changes. Every man has an animal inside him wanting to get out. He must learn to tame this animal for the good of those around him, or suffer the consequences.” 

For some time Pringle stared at Gerald very intently. Then he let out a small gasp. “Dear boy, you’re all wet…”

In the heat of his tussling with Sampson, Gerald had barely noticed the jug of paintwater fall from his desk and shatter on the floor, spilling its dull multicoloured contents all over his shoes in the process. Pringle decided that cleaning up the mess was to be Gerald’s punishment, but insisted first on peeling off the boy’s soaked shoes and socks to dry on the radiator in the storage room. 

Crouching barefoot on a stool, Gerald swept up the broken glass before taking to the floor on his hands and knees with a sponge and bucket to attend to the remaining spillage, while Pringle observed closely. He also recovered his overturned self-portrait, setting it back in its easel with pride and noting happily that it was essentially unscathed. 

At some point, Pringle seemed to be afflicted again, growing sweaty and pale as he watched Gerald tidy up. Eventually he made his usual vague comments about needing to be upstairs for some unknown purpose, and left after insisting he would be back soon and that Gerald was not to go anywhere. 

Alone in the vast basement studio, Gerald thought that he had better set about his plan to post the pages to Marvin, and went to fetch some fresh paper. He was already devising a comic strip rendition of his altercation with Sampson, picturing Marvin’s surprise as he read it, and expecting how his friend would want to hear every detail when the two reunited next term. Already, word of the fight would be spreading among the school. What the future held, Gerald did not know, but he sensed that a change had taken place today, a reversal of the established order which would not soon be forgotten. People like Sampson seemed to thrive on frightening others; take away the fear and their power might just as easily wane. 

With his self-portrait watching sternly over him, Gerald sat at his desk and got to work. It felt odd sitting there with nothing but the scribbling of his pencil to break the room’s silence, for normally Marvin was here to chatter enough for the both of them. Still, Gerald was suitably accustomed to being left in the studio to prevent the inherent eeriness from getting under his skin – although his feet were becoming rather cold. A few times he went to the storage room to check his socks and shoes on the radiator, but it was no good; they were still sodden. He turned the heat to maximum, tiptoed back to his desk, and sat back down.

Ten minutes became twenty minutes, twenty became thirty, thirty became forty, but still Mister Pringle did not return. Apart from the infrequent hint of voices coming from outside the tiny basement window, the only sign that Gerald was not the last soul left in the whole building was the occasional creaking of floorboards from upstairs. The work was engrossing enough, but it was the last day of term, after all, and eventually the boy’s mind had to wander. Gerald imagined himself forgotten, locked away for a whole week to be found by the caretaker in a withered heap at the top of the stairs, his fingernails worn to nothing from scratching helplessly at the basement door. 

Either that or Pop-In Roger gets me, Gerald told himself jokingly, yet when he actually considered it, the thought seemed entirely devoid of humour. He laughed aloud, just once, as if to make a point, yet in the stillness of the room, it too felt painfully mirthless.  

Just then, another thought occurred. Gerald had never been in detention before, nor known anyone who had. How long was it supposed to last? What if Sampson was let out early, and decided to come down and pay him a visit before Pringle came back? Where the hell was Mister Pringle anyway?

Now Gerald was beginning to feel a familiar queasy dizziness creeping up his spine. The image of himself fainting and hitting his head on the cold stone floor without anyone around to help him blared like a siren in his mind. His heart seemed to shudder in his chest and he stood up quickly from his stool, trying to steady himself against the desk. As he did so, a large piece of broken glass sank deep into his right heel, and Gerald let out a high, whistling scream. 

His foot burned as if from a hundred wasp stings as he snatched it up off the ground, tears streaming from his eyes. DO NOT FAINT, he commanded himself, DO NOT FAINT. Just get your things and go. Who cares what trouble it gets you in. Just get your things and go and DO NOT FAINT.

Hobbling on his left leg, Gerald used the other desks and stools for support to make his way up the classroom towards the storage room door. He could feel the warm, slick blood now lining the sole of his foot, no doubt leaving a grisly trail in his wake, and again the queasiness almost took him. DO NOT FAINT, he thought, DO NOT FAINT.

But when he opened the door to the storage room, Gerald’s stomach lurched again. The room was empty; his shoes and socks were gone. 

Upstairs, the basement door clicked suddenly open, and with it came the rapid sound of heavy descending footsteps. Now Gerald was almost doubled over, straddling the threshold of the storage room, his own hands clutched against the doorframe, the only thing keeping him upright. Black spots were forming in his vision as the pull of unconsciousness grew ever more irresistible. He began to feel that fainting might well be preferable to seeing whatever thing was running so briskly down the stairs and arriving any moment to be all alone with him.

The caretaker caught Gerald just before he hit the ground, but when he opened his eyes, he screamed anyway. The caretaker was apt to scream too, given the state the poor boy was in, with blood all over his feet and hands and a fair amount of it decorating the classroom. 

Sitting Gerald back down at his desk, the caretaker made a makeshift bandage for the foot and did his best to follow the sequence of events which led up to this point, as recounted by the boy, who was still in relative hysterics. Though the story did not seem especially sensible to him, the man could only assure Gerald that everything was going to be fine now and he would take him to the nurse at once, adding under his breath that he would personally like to have a word with Mister Pringle, wherever he was. 

Before getting to his feet the caretaker stopped himself, stooped under Gerald’s desk to retrieve the piece of broken glass, and went to put it in the storage room bin. Watching as the man returned across the room, careful to avoid the spatters of blood, Gerald heard the basement door click open again behind him. He saw the caretaker turn pale, clasp his hands over his mouth in disbelief, and take not one more look at Gerald before dashing into the storage room and bolting the door shut. 

Something was standing at the top of the basement staircase on two large legs. They were bent oddly, like a goat’s, or perhaps a beetle’s, and covered all over with a thick, spiny fur which glistened in the dim light. The feet were thrust into two black school shoes, splitting the seams, and when the figure took its first hulking step, these burst and ruptured even more. A further step revealed a monstrous, simian torso armed with a pair of hairy, blackened claws. One claw was clutching a hacksaw; the other, a crumpled pair of dirty odd socks. 

That was the last thing Gerald saw, and this time I’m sure you’ll agree we might forgive him for fainting. When he came to, he was on the floor again with quite the lump on his head, having fallen, curiously enough, in such a way as to land underneath his own toppled self-portrait. Whether this could have been enough to obscure him from whatever nightmare had been coming down the stairs, presuming in the first place that the whole thing was in fact any more than the panicked delusions of a bullied child, I can’t say. I’m told he really was a particularly small boy, and those canvases really were rather large. As to the potential roles that any other players could have served in producing what Gerald swears he saw, that too must remain a matter of speculation. 

I can, by way of epilogue, tell you a few more details of the case which I believe add much to its mystery, and so will now, in order of increasing peculiarity. The first addendum, which is the most tenuous and therefore the easiest to reason away, is that following the half term break, that caretaker never returned to St Swithun’s again, retiring after five years in the position without so much as an explanation and never breathing a word of what transpired in the basement, so far as anyone can tell. Yet it must be noted that St Swithun’s habitually went through caretakers, and indeed all staff far more regularly than most other schools of its kind, a fact which will only become clearer in any future stories which take place there, and the reason, for example, that Marvin is not able to recall that specific employee’s name. 

On a similar note, shortly after these events Mister Pringle was either dismissed or quit his position voluntarily, his sudden departure surrounded, like so many when it comes to that school, by a sea of rumours too tasteless to bear repeating here.

The next addendum concerns Gerald, who, it saddens me to say, was never quite the same after his experience. Finding himself unable to return to Art club once school resumed, his connection with Marvin soon fell away as friendships at that age often do, and before the academic year was through, his parents pulled him from St Swithun’s altogether, citing a string of health problems and a recurring problem with insomnia, as well as some concerns about his growing proclivity for violence. It seems he did develop into a healthy adult, for Marvin tracked him down some years ago after coming across a mutual acquaintance, but I’m told that, unlike some, he is not much one for revisiting old memories. 

The relevant detail is this. In the weeks immediately following the incident in the basement, young Gerald was struck by a debilitating illness which utterly flummoxed the doctors. Its closest similarities were with diseases relating to allergies, particularly those stemming from a reaction to the bite of an insect or other parasitic agent. Ultimately the conclusion was that the boy had probably come into contact with an as yet unidentified variety of sucking louse, likely the kind which dwell on larger mammals. There are, after all, a great many species surviving today which are still unknown to science. 

The final addendum concerns Sampson, and though it is certainly the strangest, and therefore my obligation to include here, I confess that doing so feels somewhat morbid. Yet I would also be remiss to deny it does hold a certain tinge of satisfaction, given the story we have just heard (a quality which, in his tellings, Marvin never fails to put a very fine point upon). 

Unlike Gerald, Sampson stayed the course at St Swithun’s, and though his reputation as a fighter did take a blow, he never saw the error of his ways, continuing to terrorise his fellow students throughout the rest of his time there. One day, not long after Gerald was gone, my cousin reached his own limit with Sampson’s cruelty and decided to enact his own brand of revenge. Having naturally heard every detail of the preceding story at the time, Marvin took it upon himself to break into Sampson’s dormitory while it was unoccupied and rifle through the sock drawer, stealing every other sock from each pair he found so that the boy was left exclusively with odd ones. 

In the short term, the only effect this had was that, rather predictably, for several weeks Sampson wore only odd socks and made it his business whenever the opportunity arose to publicly disparage Pop-In Roger as nothing more than a silly story meant for scaring babies.

After leaving St Swithun’s, Sampson went straight into an apprenticeship at a significant insurance firm in the city, where he apparently became involved with an organised crime ring later found to have embezzled millions. Within two years he went missing, only to eventually turn up seemingly murdered, his body curiously abandoned not far from his childhood home in the Shropshire Hills, quite drained of blood and with both feet removed.

One may assume the killer remains at large.