On Things That Go Bump in the Night
“The duck’s head is on fire.”
“What?” I mumbled into my pillow.
The ominous voice repeated (with a noticeable hint of irritation), “The duck’s head is on fire!“
“Then put it out!” I retorted, and once again wrapped myself in sweet repose.
My college roommate, in case you couldn’t tell, had the amusing habit of talking in her sleep. If nothing else, it made for some delightfully absurd conversation in the wee hours of the morning.
Due to this malady, I don’t recall bothering to acknowledge her with a response one night when she whispered, “There’s someone knocking at the window.”
After some time had passed, she said a little louder, “There’s someone knocking at the window.”
I may have grunted.
A short while later, she again hissed at me, “Stacey, there’s someone knocking at the window.”
Her voice betrayed genuine fear. I imagine that her eyes begged for comfort. She needed for me to believe her.
“No there’s not,” I said.
“I hear it,” she insisted (her bed was right under said window). “Someone keeps tapping.”
I then realized that she could not be sleep-talking because she was very much awake . . . and unfortunately, now so was I.
Had my mind not been clouded and lethargic, I would have told my roommate that in all likelihood, the tapping of the panes was no more than another student’s boyfriend throwing rocks at the building. Customarily, the gentlemen that visited in the middle of the night (hoping to be snuck in after hours) hit every window but their beloveds’. The coordination of these young men was so remarkably bad that I’m certain they had designated hitters bat for them in their tee-ball days.
But, as I said, the gears of my brain weren’t yet turning, (and, truth be told, I was rather cranky) so I offered a briefer argument. “We live on the third floor.”
This bit of logic seemed to allay her fears. She was quiet.
I snuggled deep into my covers and invited Sleep’s embrace.
My roommate lay soundlessly for awhile (in reality, it was a few seconds), still enveloped in a sense of horror. At dark o’thirty in the morning, all strange occurrences are eerily Poe-like and cannot be simply explained away. She listened and waited. The silence was nearly as maddening as the tapping.
She held her breath. Nothing.
And then it came. The knocking at the window.
It filled her with dread, enough to brave disturbing me again.
I heard her say in a tiny, uncertain voice, “I know we live on the third floor, but . . . it could be circus freaks.”