I pull my coat’s hood to shield my face as the rain pelts down. I slip my hand into my pocket for my keys and shift my weight to balance my bag of groceries. Bread, milk, eggs. I’m not sure why I bought them, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Everyone else was, in preparation for this storm. I’m lactose intolerant, but herd mentality has strong sway.
I struggle to slip my keys into the lock one-handed. At the same time, light shines onto the side of my face. A sliver of the moon sneaks out from behind the clouds and casts light through the branches of the old oak near my home. It’s a full moon tonight. Someone superstitious would say it’s a bad omen, but that’s not me.
I venture to the kitchen, flick on the light, and dump the sopping grocery bag on the counter. I fill a kettle with water and set it on the stove.
Whoosh.
The gas burner comes alight. I unpack the groceries: bread on the counter, eggs in the fridge. I sigh about the excess milk. Perhaps I can treat some stray tomcats to it. I place the carton in the fridge.
OoueeeeeeEEEE!!
The kettle screeches as the water comes to a boil. I pour myself a cup of calming chamomile tea. I’ve never been a fan of these storms. They put me on edge.
I trek to the living room with my tea and settle into my comfy armchair. My book is waiting for me on a nearby side table. I picked it up in the horror section at a local indie bookstore. It’s not my usual genre, but it seemed the suit the fall mood. “It’s spooky season!” as they say.
Creeeeeaaakk
I hear a dull noise from the depths of the house. I cannot pinpoint the exact source or the cause. But it’s an old house. Strange noises are not uncommon. I open my book and recall what was happening when I left off. I’m nearing the height of the story, I can sense it. As I move through the chapter, the author builds frightful suspense. I find myself thinking, “Don’t go in there!” The character opens the door anyway.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
My whole body jumps. My heart pumps adrenaline for a moment, before I realize that it’s just another sound from the house, or the storm, or both. Nothing unusual. Nothing paranormal, like the character in my book is facing. I thumb the silky paper and turn the page.
tap… tap… tap…
I try to re-immerse myself in the story, but it’s hard to focus with my heightened awareness of all the noises from the storm and this house. I snap the book shut, put it back in its place, and return to the kitchen. I drop my mug in the sink – tomorrow’s problem – and make my way to the staircase.
I flick the downstairs light off at the last minute and look behind me, checking that nefarious entities haven’t appeared in the time that darkness has settled me. Then, I rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time to save myself from unseen, imagined monsters that lurk in the shadows. It’s a childhood habit that has somehow stuck. It feels simultaneously silly and necessary.
Creeeeeaaakk
I enter my bathroom to get ready for bed. Wash my face, brush my teeth, swallow the latest antidepressant that my doctor prescribed. I turn off the lights and slowly pad my way toward my bedroom. The trek is familiar, but I feel uneasy about it tonight. The wind rushes around the house, and I can sense it passing over the shutters as though they are gills.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I startle again, but quickly brush it off. It’s just an old house. I pull back the covers of my bed, climb in, and close my eyes. I try to ignore the haunting noises of the storm and lull myself to sleep. I think of sheep, warm beaches, anything but the bone-chilling weather outside.
tap… tap… tap…
My eyes fly open, and I realize I can’t do it. I’m too on edge to ignore the sounds of this storm, this house. I get out of bed and make my way to the hallway. I nudge the switch and my surroundings are illuminated. I blink my eyes several times as they adjust. Then, I focus on following the sounds. As I walk forward, I realize their source: the attic.
I pull the overhead cord dangling from the ceiling to lower the hidden attic stairs and begin to climb. The dusty stairs heave and squeak under my weight. I make a note to clean up here, even though I know I won’t.
Creeeeeaaakk
I flip on my phone’s flashlight and shine it around the room. In the dim light, I notice a small window cracked open. It strains against a latch, broken but preventing the glass from flying wide open.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The wind changes direction, releasing the pressure on the window. It flaps back and forth with the irregular gusts, slamming into the window frame. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and take a few steps to cross the attic and reach the window. I release a little laugh at the silliness of being shaken by something so simple.
tap… tap… tap…
The leafless branches of the oak tree scratch against the window. I can see etchings in the glass. I never noticed that the oak got this close to the house. Another item for the to-do list: trim it back a bit. I wouldn’t want to replace a shattered window from one of these storms.
Creeeeeaaakk
I press my palm against the cool glass. It’s slick from rainwater blowing in from the crack. I push – harder than expected – to close the window and secure the other, intact latch. I shine my phone light over it and don’t see any flaws. I wonder how it popped open. I surely didn’t open it. I never come up here.
Without the noise of the window, the sounds of the storm predominate. The wind howls and the rain pounds onto the roof. The roar of the heavy droplets is overwhelming as they strike the shingles just above my head.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
I shuffle across the dusty floor. As I calm, I notice the sound of my feet disturbing decades-old dirt coating the floorboards. Tiny pebbles and grime poke into the pads of my toes.
At the top of the stairs, I brush off my feet and switch off my phone light. The dim glow of the hallway lights the stairs enough to see them.
Mistake. Some internal voice whispers in my head.
I don’t turn around to look behind me. It’s just an old house. It was just an old window.
Mistake.
I take my time down the unstable stairs, carefully placing my feet. Then, I feel a pressure on my shoulder, sharply pulling me back.
Mista-aaaAAAH!!
…
Creeeeeaaakk
Bang! Bang! Bang!
tap… tap… tap…
