Night Sounds

by Curt Jeffreys

The old man lay awake in his bed, his shallow breath charging the air. Moon-shadows crept across the floor, negatives in silver and black.

The night was alive with sound; the tap of the old oak against the window, the scrape of the forsythia bush against the house, the groan of the old furnace in the dank cellar two floors below. The old man heard it all with extraordinary clarity. His body had failed him, but his hearing was keen.

Anna, his day nurse, had left for the day and he had given Andrew the night off. It seemed unfair to tie someone so young to a dying old man night after night -- there is so much of life that can only be experienced after the sun goes down. The old man remembered what it was like to be young and had generously given his young aid a night to himself. So here he was, wide awake, sleep eluding him like a hunted animal, like it did most nights now.

Tap, went the old oak against the window.

Scratch, went the bush against the house.

Groan, went the furnace from its basement hideaway.

CLICK.

Click? What was 'click'? The sound was out of place, did not fit into the orchestration of familiar night sounds.

CREAK.

The old man struggled to sit up in his bed; the effort costing him dearly. He fell back, a bony hand to his chest, clutching at his racing heart.

BUMP.

He held his breath, his ears straining at the sound. There was no place for this sound, no category in which to place it; it was alien, foreign to his nighttime world.

CLINK. RATTLE.

He knew every sound the old house could make and these sounds didn't belong, didn't fit. It could mean only one thing: He was not alone. He was not alone in his house.

He turned to the clock on the table, blurry eyes straining to make out the time: It was a quarter of two, or was it ten past nine? He laid perfectly still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. His heart pounded his ribs like a prize fighter.

You're fine , he whispered into the darkness. It's a windy night, you old fool. It's the wind and nothing more.

SCRAPE.

That wasn't the wind -- there was someone in the house! Downstairs! A burglar! It must be! Some low-life was in his house rifling through his things, violating his privacy, giving no thought to fifty years of mementos, a lifetime of cherished memories. Ransacking, looting, looking for valuables, cash, weapons! Drug money, that's what the punk wants! That's what they always want. And when he's finished downstairs he'll come up here, that's what he'll do. He'll find me here, bedridden and defenseless, waiting passively, like a sheep to be slaughtered!

He looked anxiously around the room and for a moment fooled himself into thinking he could actually mount a meager defense against the intruder. In the corner was his umbrella stand, canes and walking sticks bristling from its mouth. He could use one as club if only.... No. He didn't have the strength to swing a club; he couldn't even get out of bed without help. He had to think of something else, quickly.

His eyes traversed the room in spasms of fear, searching, seeking, probing the darkness. It amazed and depressed him to realize how completely and totally vulnerable he was, like a babe in its crib, a hatchling in its nest.

CRASH.

The kitchen! That came from the kitchen, Maggie's kitchen. He's going through the cabinets now, that's what he's doing. Looking for booze or drugs maybe. The thought of a stranger handling his dear Maggie's things brought a flush of anger to the old man. Maggie had loved her kitchen. She had kept it so organized, so neat. A place for everything and everything in its place. Even the spice rack was arranged by alphabet: basil before cinnamon, paprika before thyme. Everything was exactly as she'd left it so long ago; neatly ordered, arranged just so, a shrine to his dead wife. And now some stranger, some monster, was despoiling her spice rack.

His heart pounded with anger. He closed his eyes, tried to slow his breathing. He counted to ten between each breath, his heart slowing to a dull thump in his chest.

Calm. Quiet. Calm and quiet. He repeated this mantra over and over. This will be okay. This will be okay. The intruder will find hidden treasure in the cookie jar and leave, that's what he'll do. All will be well. Stay calm.

Time passed, each second an eternity, each minute sixty forevers. The old man was starting to relax now. The noises had stopped, his world was slowly returning to normal. It could have been worse. Anna would discover the burglary in the morning and call the police. His meager fortune would be gone, his cookie jar empty, but he'd be alive.

CREAK. Pause. CREAK.

His heart jumped. Oh, God! the stairs. He's coming upstairs! The old man clutched his chest. His heart threatened to crack his ribs in its wild frenzy. Liquid warmth spread between his legs. He reached for his pills on the nightstand. His palsied hand stretched for the bottle, touched it, sent it clattering to the hardwood floor. Pills scurried in every direction like cockroaches at the click of a light switch.

The creaking on the stair stopped. He'd given himself away -- the intruder now knew he was there. Any hope of surviving the night was now gone. The monster would have no choice now but to act and tonight the old man would surely die.

CLUMP. CLUMP. CLUMP.

Death rushed up the stairs to his bedroom door. He screamed. The doorknob jiggled, rattled, began to turn. He screamed again.

Reverend Solomon handed Amber Martinez a cup of steaming hot tea. She sat slumped on the couch in her great-grandfather's parlor. The hysteria had passed, the worst of the tears gone for now.

"Please, drink this," he said in a voice designed to soothe and calm. "I added a shot of schnapps. It'll do you good." He smiled down at the young girl, a friendly, fatherly smile.

"Thanks again for coming, Reverend," she said, taking the mug, feeling the warmth spreading to her cold hands. "I know it's been a while since I was in church, but I didn't know who else to call. I just needed... somebody."

"I understand, my dear," the elderly minister took a place on the couch next to the girl. "This is quite a shock. What you're going through is perfectly normal."

The girl drank deeply, the said at length, "Grampy lived alone. Grams died about ten years ago."

She placed the cup on the coffee table. She used a coaster -- Grams always insisted on coasters; it was a sin not to.

"Anna," she continued, "she's the day nurse, she leaves at three everyday and Andrew, he usually stays here nights, he's not here. Grampy sometimes gives him the night off." She smiled a heart wrenching smile. "Andrew will be so upset."

She wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue. Reverend Solomon smiled his sympathy.

"Grampy had a bad heart, you know. We all knew it was just a matter of time before, you know..."

She sobbed and blew her nose. The reverend offered her the tissue box.

"Thank you," she sniffed. "I'm sorry, I just..."

The minister touched her lightly on the shoulder. "It's okay, Amber." He'd been through this many, many times before. It was part of the job, but never easy. "Take your time."

The girl took a fresh tissue and wiped her eyes. "I knew Grampy was alone tonight so I thought I'd stop by to check in on him after school -- I take night classes at City College two nights a week. Anyway, I got here a little after nine. I didn't go upstairs right away -- I'd brought some groceries and I wanted to put them away. Grampy likes macaroni and cheese. I bought four boxes for him."

She smiled, took another long sip and placed the cup gently in its coaster. "There were dishes in the drainer, so I put them away," she said.

"When did you go upstairs?"

"Right after that. I came in here to check the thermostat first. Grampy has -- had -- bad circulation. I didn't want him to get cold. It was windy tonight."

"That was very thoughtful."

"I was about halfway up the stairs when I heard a clatter. I ran up the rest of the way. That's when he screamed. I thought maybe he fell again or something."

She paused, tears ready to flow. "It was horrible!" she said. "I'll never forget his scream! I had to jiggle the knob to get the door open -- it sticks sometimes. I was so scared. He kept screaming and screaming! And then it was quiet. Just all of a sudden it was so quiet. And when I got the door open..."

"Yes?"

She looked up, eyes wide, brimming with tears.

"He was in his bed, clutching his chest. He was dead," she whispered. "I knew he was dead, I didn't have to touch him to know. But the worst thing was his face: Such a look of horror on his face. I'll never forget it. It was like he'd been scared to death!"