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When Stanley first saw the bump it was under the wall paper in the kitchen. He has been staring absentmindedly out a window overlooking several small backyards, steep rooftops, long skinny ladders and a slice of narrow road pregnant with early morning bustle. There were children with long socks and grubby schoolyard knees, an array of neighbourhood cats, cars, bikes, and people on their hurried way. And Mrs Pepperport slipping onto her front steps clutching a pink dressing gown across her bosom as she reached for her newspaper. Stanley sloshed his tea onto his saucer as he stirred a little too vigorously and he quickly withdrew his eyes from her soft distant complexion and focused on the safe regularity of his kitchen clock.

 

And there was the bump, just beside it. It caused the roses on the wallpaper to extend alarmingly and the clock itself to tilt.

 

Stanley put his tea on the counter and peered at it closely. As his hand rose to touch it the bulge moved away very rapidly. It appeared to be hiding in a flattened position behind the crockery cabinet. The piece of wall where it formerly sat now appeared as smooth and ordinary as before. Puzzled, Stanley picked up the dish mop from the sink and held it sword-like before him as he edged forward, ready to prod the thing, when the bump disappeared behind the cabinet and re-appeared shockingly bulbous on the other side before escaping around the door frame. The wooden frame itself popped outward as if it were a soft malleable material, yet, like the wall, instantly returned to its prior appearance. The bump had made no sound.

 

Stanley ran to the hallway and quickly scanned its surfaces: the off-white ceiling, the patterned walls, and the faded carpet. His bedroom door was ajar and though he made a thorough search of the room, even lifting the bed clothes with a dramatic sweep as if surprising a childhood monster, no unusual lumps were visible.

 

Stanley straightened himself and took a moment to tuck in his shirt before returning to his abandoned tea which, he discovered, contained far too much sugar. He tipped it out and with one last look at the clock and a perplexed glance to the side of it, he went down the hall. By the front door was a coat-rack tacked to the wall and his briefcase stood neatly below. He tried to peer behind the coats and seeing nothing, snatched his hat, coat and bag with a jittery arm and went out the door with a slam.

 

Old Mrs Elwick was perched on her top step folding a shopping list into her black beaded purse. They were separated only by a thigh deep dull brick wall.

 

"Good morning Mr Lint, it looks as if we're in for a fine day - I say, are you quite alright? You don't look at all yourself."

 

"Oh, I'm fine thankyou Mrs Elwick. Just a little overtired, I've been very busy at work," he pushed at his glasses nervously. "I must be going, have a good day."

 

"And the same to you Mr Lint," she called after his back. "Such a strange man," she muttered to herself as she watched him dash awkwardly down the path, dodging and stumbling.

 

Stanley spent the day elbow deep in accounts, sipping tea, scoffing a packet of raspberry tarts and eyeing the legs of Penelope, the secretary, who sat primly in a green dress outside his office door. By late afternoon he felt more grounded and distanced from the strange occurrence of the morning. By the time he reached home he had a sense of valour and opened his front door squarely with his chin up. His brief case was flung (and then placed with precision) against the wall. He pushed the door shut with his foot. His hat and coat were placed firmly on their pegs as he glared over his shoulder at the hallway walls - nothing.

Stanley surveyed each tidy room with meticulous attention; the bedroom, the lounge, the kitchen, the soap scented bathroom - nothing. He fried himself two chops, boiled some carrots and beans. He ate at the small kitchen table while listening to the wireless. Soothed by the orchestral music he hummed a little while doing the dishes, indulged in a bath and read on the overstuffed sofa before retiring to bed.

 

Weeks passed and the strange bump seemed a slightly comical and absurd memory. He spoke of it to nobody. He found the bump confusing and could hardly admit his fear of it - afraid of a bump? What would people say?

 

Then one morning he saw it again. He was sitting on the toilet seat and turned for the toilet paper when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the bump only inches from his buttocks, plastered behind the toilet bowl. He jumped up and spun around, his trousers at his feet. He reached cautiously for the toilet paper, his eyes fixed on the bump. He flushed the toilet quickly as if it were too hot, and then with his trousers fastened into their proper place, looked at it curiously. There was no movement. Stanley returned to the kitchen to nervously butter some toast. He cast one more look into the bathroom before going to work. The bulge was in the same place, half hidden by the white porcelain and black plastic seat. He let it be and hurried out.

 

When he came home, it was gone. The next day it appeared behind the front door as if it were crouching there, waiting for him. He hit it with his umbrella and it dented momentarily and then grew large as if it were on the brink of leaping, then it skimmed around the lounge room door. That night Stanley ate no dinner, he drank a glass of milk whilst standing to attention on the kitchen linoleum. He saw it once under the lounge room carpet and lunged at it with a chair and twice he tried to beat it with a golf club against the wall. It was too fast.

 

Eventually Stanley loosened his clothing and climbed into bed. He peered into the darkness. He tossed and turned and tried to reason with himself - it was just a bump after all and it seemed just as frightened of him as he was of it. But it didn't stop the feeling that something was lurking around the walls, down low, behind the furniture.

 

He sat up. Surely that was the bump he could see by the strip of street light slipping through the curtain. It was moving toward him, the wallpaper wallowing out in a dim creamy wave and as Stanley reached for the lamp switch the bulge was suddenly upon him. His arms flurried, his fingers clutched, digging at the large lump under his skin - covering his chest, hard and choking, straining his ribs. From his lips came a gurgle and splintered sound and his body went forlornly limp.

 

"Well, there was something strange about three nights ago," said Mrs Elwick frowning to herself. "Do help yourself to another scone Constable," she added, noticing the police officer was eyeing the plate. "He was always so quiet but this one particular night I do remember hearing rather a lot of bumps. I was going to say something when next I saw him, but then of course...do try the strawberry jam; it was a present from my niece.

 

Under the table, very close to Mrs Elwick's knee, a strange lump sat waiting.