I Know Why You Scream

                                            

And there she goes, just like clockwork.

Every morning at 1:56 is when she begins. Don’t ask me why she chose that time of day because I have no idea. I don’t even bother sleeping at night anymore, and that’s been over a year. I sleep during the day like some kinda damned vampire. If I was still young enough to get hired on a night shift somewhere then that might have helped, gotten me out of the house, but I’ve been retired for a while now. And there’s not many places for an old retired guy like myself to go night after night and just sit it out. Or maybe I should say not many places I wanna go. Because the only place I really wanna be at that time of morning is in my own home, in my own bed, snoring under my own sheets. I really feel like I earned that at this time in my life, you know?

But no. She doesn’t agree. And she won’t stop.

Oh it’s not like I haven’t tried. Believe me I have tried. For the first few weeks when I would get rattled awake day after day by all that hollering (sounded like somebody was butchering the woman with a cleaver is how it sounded, and still sounds, by the way), I would throw the covers off my bed, snatch my robe off the door hook on the way to the stairs, and then make my way to the basement. That ain’t easy with these knees. All the time that damned screaming would be getting louder and more unhinged, like she was afraid of what I was gonna do.

Me.

I know, right? I mean seriously?

Because all I wanted her to do was to shut the hell up so I could go back to sleep. That’s all I wanted. But then, every single time, once I got to the bottom of the stairs, the exact second my foot touched the basement floor, the screaming would stop. The lights would come on, bright lights, even though the electricity hadn’t worked down there since I don’t know when. Never bothered to fix it because I was hardly ever down there. Always used  a flashlight whenever I needed anything.

Until the screaming started, and those lights would come on, every night, and I could see that heavy white wooden door at the far end of the basement, looking like it belonged more in some medieval castle than anywhere inside my little frame house on Detroit’s East Side. It was the only one on the whole block, so no neighbors to complain.

The door always opens, like it’s doing now. Just enough to hear the whispers and the giggling. Yeah, sure, I was scared at first, but then it started to piss me off. Especially once she started calling my name, which is a new thing since last week.

HarryHarryHarryHarryHarryHairrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeee.

Always like that, the same way. Like she’s mocking me on loop, repeating my name over and over. But then soon as I get to the door, once my hand reaches out to pull it open wide so I can finally face my tormentor, it slams shut. Every time.

Except tonight. Tonight I finally get to see.

“Come in, Harry. It’s all for you.”

“What do you mean all for…Jesus. Oh Jesus Christ.”

The thing shakes its head.

“Not exactly, Harry.”