The Pest Control man is becoming something of a permanent fixture in my house.  In the past, he would have arrived discreetly in an unmarked van; now he is on first-name terms with the entire street.  I don’t mind.  If he can rid me of whatever critter is scratching and scrabbling away in my attic, he can declare himself a Freeman of our Neighbourhood as far as I am concerned.

My loft was fast becoming something of a no-go zone.  The scratchings and scrabblings emanating from above were, frankly… loud.  It was as if some rodent equivalent of Bertha Mason was imprisoned up there.  It was reaching the point where I was beginning to be scared to go up there on my own, worried what kind of marauding hordes would be unleashed as soon as I raised the trapdoor.  And, judging from past experience of the various beasties which have entered my house––mice, rats, squirrels, sparrows, wasps, even cockchafers––the range of possibilities of the current infestation was legion.  The only critter that has not been inside my house is a fox, otherwise I might have been tempted to ape the title of Richard Hughes’ 1961 novel, The Fox in The Attic for this blog.  No, the fox is altogether too comfortable sitting on the roof of my shed.

So, all things considered, my attic was a job best left to the professionals.

Peter––not his real name––from Pest Control had nerves of steel.  That, or no imagination.  Fearless, he was up and into my attic like a Jack Russell down a rabbit-hole.  It was through semi-closed eyes that I watched him lift the trapdoor to my attic, anticipating, at any second, a cascade of little rodents to spill from the gaping opening.  Instead.  Nothing.  A blissful peace.

Peter lay a number of traps, large and small, each liberally baited with peanut butter, designed to entice any unsuspecting interlopers, from mouse to human.  He said he’d be back in a few days to await… results.

The result occurred that same night.  Lying in bed, just drifting off to sleep, I was sprung into full wakefulness by the unmistakeable ‘snap’ of a trap operating in the loft-space directly above my head.

It was with a peculiar kind of morbid curiosity that I anticipated Peter’s next visit.  I wondered just what kind of beastie he had ensnared.  Peter had speculated a mouse.  My money was on a rat.  What would it be?

Upon his return, I briefed Peter about the trap, which had gone ‘snap’; warned him to expect carnage.  Undaunted, he returned to the attic as fearlessly as before.

And, what did he find?

Nothing.

No sign of a rodent; no sign of a body; more mysteriously, no sign of a trap.

Whatever had caused the ‘snap’ had vanished, and had taken the trap along with it.  My imagination was already picturing monsters; rodent mutations of super-murine strength.  Peter told me that I was overthinking things.  He was probably right.

Nevertheless, the mystery persists.  And my personal Bertha Mason remains at liberty.

© Simon Turner-Tree

Simon Turner-Tree asserts that no animals were hurt during the writing of this blog.