Scream

I woke abruptly to strident shrills of terror bouncing back and forth like racquetball off the bare, cream colored walls of my room. Violent screams that must have already woken the whole neighborhood permeated my eardrums. My mind swam through its skull like a large domestic goldfish in a small bowl. Cold. Terrified. Alone.

Earlier that evening I had been reading—what exactly I can’t recall at the time—but I was engrossed; I couldn’t put the book down. Somehow this particular day had seemed to jam forty-eight hours into twenty-four; a cruel joke. My head pounded; back ached; neck tightened. My eyes were begging for rest. In innocent defiance I kept reading; word after word, page after page, and chapter after chapter. I would not let my eyes win this battle; carpe diem.

It’s been said that where there’s a will there’s a way. Well, the way is always weaker than the will. Once again, like every other night, I lost the battle. My eyes overpowered me and drug me into the prison cell some call sleep; it was hopeless. The last thing I remember was laying my head on the desk. Sleep was imminent, so I had to make it as unprofitable as possible. No mattress or blankets tonight. I may have lost this battle, but the war was mine; all mine.

The room spun. Sleep.

The screaming got louder, closer. Nauseating. Who—or what—could make such a disturbing noise? Are human lungs capable of such a pitch? I heard a strange deep melody amidst the shrieks.

I jumped up from the desk I’d fallen to sleep at. Page 327 was saturated with drool. I darted across the room, careful not to make a sound. I didn’t want whomever, or whatever was screaming to know that I was awake. Slowly I inched down the hall, my socks buffed the hard wood floor as I drug my feet. If I were to step in the wrong spot, the old would floor would complain with childish groans. The high-pitched screams still had a guttural melody woven throughout; the sound seemed to follow me, I couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from.

I approached a door. The sign on the door warned that trespassers would be shot. This was Drew’s room. My roommate Drew is a tall, greasy-brown haired professional pianist. At least that’s what he calls himself, professional. Drew plays at weddings, bar mitzvahs, and semi-fancy department stores—wherever he can get a gig. Drew and I met in college. We weren’t really friends in school but when I began advertising for a roommate to share rent, Drew called. He would have moved home after graduation but his fiancé lives in town. For some odd reason he wanted to be close to her; go figure.

I eased the door open, the room was black. The earsplitting noise seemed to get louder with every footstep. My eyes quickly adjusted and I stopped cold. Fear brought my muscles to a halt. My throat tightened; my mind seized. Drew was gone.

Drew! I managed to yell. Then, scolding myself, I realized that whatever was screaming might hear me. The room was dark and I had left my glasses on the desk where I had laid my head. I frantically [but quietly] searched. Relief flooded my head when I saw Drew wrapped in blankets, curled up on the floor next to his bed. He had rolled off. This was not uncommon; in fact, I began to feel stupid for not thinking of that first. My mind was not clear. It was almost a routine for Drew to wake up in the morning beside his bed. He was a sleep-mover.

But why hadn’t the noise jolted him from sleep as it had me?

The sound throbbed in my head as I shook Drew. He wouldn’t wake up. His pulse, I thought. I put two fingers on his wrist; he was alive, just sleeping. His face was peaceful. How could someone sleep through such an awful noise? I have to figure out what it is.

The apartment seemed calm; too calm. Not that I expected the appliances to wake up, I just needed the comfort and assurance of knowing someone, or something else was experiencing the same thing that I was. I was Cold. Terrified. Alone.

Fog must have been thicker than normal that night. The moon was no where to be seen. It could have been kidnapped by space aliens for all I knew. It was dark outside; too dark. I sat on the floor thinking. There has to be an explanation. Maybe the neighbors left their TV on. No, the sound was too clear, too close. Did the land lord install a new fire alarm and conveniently forget to tell me about it? That would be one disturbing alarm. Couldn’t be an alarm; I would hear commotion. The rest of the building would be awake and moving. Everything was motionless and quiet; except for that sickening noise.

I surge of audacity brought me to my feet. What was I so afraid of? A sound can’t hurt me. I walked to the window over a new porcelain kitchen sink I recently installed myself, flipped the window’s latch and carefully slid it open. Leaning over the sink I peered out the frame. The sound was coming from outside. The screaming was so clear, so grotesque; so familiar. Had I heard this before? If I had, I would remember it; right?

Before moving to the window, I had been on the floor for at least thirty minutes; the sound hadn’t waned at all. I knew that just staying inside wouldn’t solve anything. I had to face whatever it was that was producing that horrible wail, that banshee call.

It was so cold. The apartment was freezing. I was sweating. I needed to go outside. I stood at the door, anticipating the worst. Again my muscles tensed, it took all my strength to turn the brass handle. The handle felt as though it wouldn’t stop, 180 degrees, 360, 720, 1080. It was broken. Then the handle began to spin on its own. Faster and faster it whirled. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

The screaming got louder.

I couldn’t think straight. The noise was becoming unbearable. I yelled at the top of my lungs; nothing. Just the awful medley of screams and hissing and song—louder. The building began to shake. An earthquake? I could hear someone yelling my name. It was Drew, he was calling for me. I tried to call back but I still couldn’t hear myself. I could hear his voice, but not my own. The building quaked violently, the screaming crashed into my ears like a freight trait. Drew’s calling grew louder, overpowering the screams. I could hear him, but couldn’t see him; pure terror.

TURN IT OFF!

I jumped to consciousness. Light flooded the room. Drew was yelling at me from his room. My alarm was screeching its familiar song.

I drudgingly walked over, hit snooze and crawled in bed for a few more minutes.

Quiet.

Copyright 2007 © Jon Eckert