Page 17 of Cackle

I wait for the sound to come again, to prove itself.

It doesn’t.

It was loud enough for me to trust that I actually heard it, that it wasn’t imagined. I tiptoe into the kitchen, where I pick up a frying pan to use as a potential weapon, like I’m an old Italian woman. I walk back into the living room.

I press my ear to the door.

I hear nothing but the whistle of my own breathing through clogged nostrils.

“Hello?” I say through the door.

I wait.

Still nothing.

I open the door, pan held high just in case.

I flip on the light. There’s the distinct fizz of electricity.

I can see only the first few steps down to the landing. There’s no one there, but it’s possible that there’s someone around the corner, on the bottom half of the steps, waiting.

The bulb sputters. Goes out, comes on again.

I see a strange shape straight ahead of me, hovering above the stairs. At first I think it’s my eyes, my vision spotting from the flare of light. Then I realize it must be my shadow.

Only I’m holding a frying pan, and it isn’t.

It’s not my shadow.

There’s a pang of doubt. Am I seeing this? Does it exist outside my vision, in the physical world?

The bulb sputters out again.

There’s a faint creaking sound. It’s slow, agonizing. And then SLAM!

The door at the bottom of the stairs. It just slammed shut.

The light mercifully returns.

There’s no shadow. No shape. I muster enough courage to turn the corner. The bottom half of the staircase is empty.

I go down to lock the outside door. I guess I forgot to do it earlier when I got home. I did have my hands full. The wind must have blown it open. That must have been the noise I heard, the door clattering.

“Right,” I say, twisting the dead bolt.

I head back upstairs and close the apartment door. Lock it. I turn around to face the living room, the couch soaked in tears and boogers and drool, the nearly empty bottle of wine on the coffee table.

I sigh, mouth open, and taste a familiar brine.

I don’t know if I’m crying because I’m sad or startled or both.

I return the pan to the kitchen and put myself to bed.

You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, I say to myself.

And there’s an echo, in a voice not my own.

You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.