In this part of the book, science fiction writer Kilgore Trout just received an invitation to speak at the grand opening of the new Midland City Center for the Arts. Success was foreign to Trout; in fact, failure was such a familiar occurrence that he found comfort in it. Needless to say, the author was skeptical when he received the letter of invitation. In the following paragraphs from the book, Trout is discussing the matter with his parakeet, Bill:

“Then he thought about what Bill himself might want. It was easy to guess. ‘Bill,’ he said, ‘I like you so much, and I am such a big shot in the Universe, that I will make your three biggest wishes come true.’ He opened the door of the cage, something Bill couldn’t have done in a thousand years.

“Bill flew over to a windowsill. He put his little shoulder against the glass. There was just one layer of glass between Bill and the great out-of-doors. Although Trout was in the storm window business, he had no storm windows on his own abode.

“‘Your second wish is about to come true,’ said Trout, and he again did something which Bill could never have done. He opened the window. But the opening of the window was such an alarming business to the parakeet that he flew back to his cage and hopped inside.

“Trout closed the door of the cage and latched it. ‘That’s the most intelligent use of three wishes I ever heard of,’ he told the bird. ‘You made sure you’d still have something worth wishing for—to get out of the cage.’”

Upon reading Trout’s logic, I was astounded. Not by the truth of it, rather by the sadly familiar bell it rang in the steeple of my head. I wondered how many people live their lives with such a mindset; afraid to break out of the comfort of the average, the security of the ordinary. I wondered if I’ve unconsciously succumbed to a similar lifestyle.

We’re beings of order; that is the way we were created. However there is a thin but distinct (and indelible) line between a natural proclivity to order and an apathetic life of comfort.

Thin metal bars were not keeping Bill incarcerated, fear was his prison. Fear of the unknown was a more impenetrable cage than any man-made holding unit. We are too often just like Bill; afraid to extend ourselves, to give comfort, to sacrifice, to share our faith, to love.

Don’t let fear entrap you. Don’t let apathy hold you down. Don’t let comfort keep you from doing what is right.

Copyright © Jon Eckert

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

I dragged myself from the bed, the cold air bit as I made my way down the creaky stairs to the front door. The knocking grew louder and faster as I approached. I reached the door, put my hand on the knob and waited. The metal knob felt like ice, sending a chill down my spine. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. With my initial twist of the knob the knocking ceased. I flung the door open hoping to catch whomever was responsible. Nothing. I took a step into the door frame and peered out toward the street. Everything was black and grey, eerily lit by a single street lamp. The lamp light was white, cold, and cast dreary shadows on the other houses. I was inclined to think that the dark neighborhood would have felt less foreboding if there had been no light at all. There was no one around. I shook off my uneasiness, closed the door and turned to be reunited with the sweet arms of my queen sized bed. I took about six steps. Knock. Knock. Knock. Every muscle in my body tensed; my mouth was dry as sand. I quickly moved to the door and flung it open. “What?” I screamed, “Leave me alone!” No one was there. I stood still for a moment; afraid to stay and afraid to go. The sky was starless; the moon was gone. I stood perfectly still, staring into the black sky. Knock. Knock. Knock. The knocking was back, louder and faster than ever. The sound was deafening. It seemed now to be coming from somewhere in the house. I ran to my den. The horrible pounding was now coming from the windows. There must be more than one person involved. “Stop!” My hoarse voice belted. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” I pleaded. The knocking grew louder, faster. The beating now seemed to flood the entire house, drowning out my own screams. Then—silence; silence and blackness.

I found myself on the floor. Had I fallen? I felt a throbbing in my chest as I lay on the floor, unable to move. My head swam as the pain grew from a deep throb to sharp stabs; unbearable stabs.

That was the last thing I remember.