Once, in the corridors that smelled of antiseptic and detergent - in the whitewashed halls of the fearsome fortress they called the Cradle - the tapping was as familiar to everyone as the haunting screams of the mentally unstable. Yet, even now with the Cradle only existing as an empty, accursed shell, the rhythmic tap-tap the cane still echoes eerily in its abandoned ruin, amidst the wordless cries of soulless puppets.
Mr London. It was one of the names inside the visitors' record book, meticulously written in spidery script. The residents of the Cradle, however, knew Mr London by a different title. They'd nicknamed him the Cane-Man.
They say Mr London carried a cane made from the finest wood. This cane had been blessed by a secret order of monks - purportedly heretical cultists in Cambodia - and was capped with a small globe of burnished gold, no bigger than a clenched fist.
In the years to come, the villagers flinched at shadows and hid from the darkness. The men talked in hushed tones over beer and candlelight about a stiff figure roaming the village graveyard in the dark of night. The grave-keepers were afraid to ply their trade, lest this unknown 'thing' besets them with misfortune - or worse.
The last thing any of them wanted was to get the chance of having to bury their comrades six feet under.
Mr London had only one purpose each time he visited the Cradle; each visit was for a certain little boy in the nursery tower. The nurses said the child was his bastard offspring - a mistake, brought into the world by carelessness in the fires of passion. After all, wasn't the old man seen frequently in the company of 'lesser' women around the downtown zones?
They couldn't have been any further from the truth.
The little boy was, in actual fact, Mr London's grandson. The boy's parents were killed in a horrific accident, shortly after they birthed him into the world. The kid was barely one year then.
Mr London was firm in the knowledge that his grandchild should never discover the cause of his parents' death. He feared the truth would break the boy. And so, the boy was spirited away to the safety of the Cradle. Never mind the fact that the nursery tower was surrounded by maniacal beings who had ceased to be human long before; Mr London was determined to isolate the boy forever, to spare him the hurt of reality.
Thus, the boy became a de facto citizen of the Cradle, under the iron rule of its administrative board and the watchful, prying eyes of the matrons.
The eccentric Cane-Man enjoyed his visits to the place every week. Without fail, he would turn up every Tuesday afternoon, precisely at 4.05pm, at the front gate. The items he carried were all but predictable: a bouquet of tulips (courtesy of the peasants' market nearby) and a chocolate bar. The bouquets were always for the nurses ("his little boy's mothers", as he affectionately termed them), while the bar was for his little precocious darling.
The inmates' uprising two years later changed all that. Mr London, as expected, was shattered by the sudden turn of events, and would have jumped into the raging inferno of the Cradle were it not for the intervention of firefighters. He watched with tears of rage and frustration as the flames cremated his family's heir alive, the screams of the dying children to be forever etched into his memory.
Five days later, the Cane-Man hung himself from a lamp-post in a quiet suburban neighborhood. His death caused an uproar in the local community; it took the police almost a month to clear up the outrage and disbelief of the village-folk.
And as with all things related to the grim legend of the Cradle, the village was unwittingly doomed to its newfound fate.
The dark cloud came slowly at first. The night seemed more quiet, more ominous. It no longer had the same peaceful, tranquil quality the villagers had enjoyed since time immemorial. No; it had been taken over by some strange, otherworldly force, like some menacing predator creeping up on its unwary prey.
In the years to come, the villagers flinched at shadows and hid from the darkness. The men talked in hushed tones over beer and candlelight about a stiff figure roaming the village graveyard in the dark of night. The grave-keepers were afraid to ply their trade, lest this unknown 'thing' besets them with misfortune - or worse. The last thing any of them wanted was to get the chance of having to bury their comrades six feet under.
Dogs and cats howled and hissed at the silent night, while rats and vermin fled in the wake of it. Women locked their children indoors starting early evening, warning little brats that 'the night will get you', lest they mended their naughty habits to escape its wrathful punishment.
Little Tricia was no different from the many kids in the village. Like other children her age, she was cute, naive and blissfully innocent. Her smile made grown-ups grin and hearts melt. She was almost always clad in the most beautiful dresses that drew stares of admiration from other adults and kids. In fact, she was so much like other children her age that she was also unspeakably curious of everything.
And so it was one fateful moonless night that the same little girl sneaked out of her room window into the open.
"It's alright, girl. When we're done, you won't ever be afraid of the dark anymore."
She walked the village streets, hoping to see a familiar face somewhere. She craned her neck to find the grocer's dog, the mustachioed constable, the smiling bread lady. But this late at night, they had all gone in, tucked into their beds and dreaming of a better life. So you can imagine her surprise when she turned around to suddenly find an old man standing there.
Still, she somehow managed to keep her scream in.
The old man tapped his long wooden cane against the cobblestone pavement. He tilted his head to one side as he looked at the young girl. "What's wrong, little one?" the old man croaked. "Are you lost? Where's your mummy & daddy?"
She gazed into the old man's lucid blue eyes - such beautiful eyes! she thought. She can see herself reflected in them, like the mirrors Mother keeps in her room drawer. She smiled innocently at the old man, who grinned in return, revealing rows of yellow teeth.
"Mummy says we should take care of our teeth," she quipped happily.
"Indeed," said the old man. "And did she tell you why?"
"Because teeth need to last us a lifetime."
"My, aren't you a smart little girl."
"That's what the grocer said to me too," Tricia beamed.
"To tell you the truth, little girl," the old man said thoughtfully, "I've lost the use for my teeth a long time ago."
Tricia's brown eyes widened noticeably. "What do you mean, sir?"
The old man seemed not to hear her, as he seemed to be gazing blankly into the distance. Then he turned to look back at little Tricia once more. "I think I'm hungry," said the old man. Kneeling down by his cane, he beckoned Tricia to come closer. Whispering in her ear, "How would you like to join me for a bite?"
She blushed slightly in response. "Mummy told me never to follow strangers."
"Oh yes, I'd forgotten about that," the old man grinned, a slight air of sheepishness in his shrug. "My name is... is... well, I'm so old that I've actually forgotten my name." Then he laughed at his little joke. Tricia broke into a large toothy grin. The old man smiled and twirled his cane in the air a few times. She caught a glimpse of a shiny golden ball at one end.
"So... while I try to remember my name, what's yours, pretty one?"
Again, Tricia blushed. "Tricia, sir."
"Ah, a royal name, for a little princess like you, isn't it?" whispered the old man. Tricia blushed furiously this time, turning slightly from side to side. She was starting to like this old man - and very much!
The old man extended a wrinkled, bony hand. "Come, Tricia, let's take a walk. It's a lovely night..."
She took his hand gratefully, and squeezed it a little. The old man turned to Tricia once more. "Something wrong?"
"I'm... afraid of the dark, sir."
The old man cupped her cheek in his hand. "It's alright, girl. When we're done, you won't ever be afraid of the dark anymore." And little Tricia smiled again.
He rose to his full height, steadying himself on his cane. Then he walked alongside the little girl. She swung her hand and his happily, humming a little ditty to herself. The old man gazed into the darkness ahead, seemingly unaware of the little girl clasping his arm tightly. And so they walked, his cane tap-tapping against the road, till the morning fog engulfed them and hid them from sight.
Till today, who knows what really happened to little Tricia that one night? What were her thoughts before she disappeared, leaving only half-chewed bones to prove her existence at all? What games did the old man play with her during the course of their walk? Who was the old man in the first place?
For the record, the case - like many others in the Lenev File - was never solved. But remember! If, by chance, you are out walking in the dark, and you hear the steady tap-tap of a walking stick behind you - run, run like you've never run before; run and never look back! The legend of the Cane-Man is every bit as true as each of the horror stories surrounding the Cradle - and every bit as real as the murder of the little girl, Tricia.
