THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

Debbie Massey

Heart pounding , she inched her way across the dark bedroom floor , like she had done so many times before. In some weird way she took comfort surveying her stash when she couldn't sleep . Cans and boxes of all sorts of food staples , lined up like little soldiers . " Ah the poetry of it all" she thought. Slowly opening the little closet door, one squeak at a time , she complained to herself “ These old doors make so much noise .” This closet was her favorite place to store her precious supplies . Her ‘Hard Times’ cache .

She didn’t want to turn the light on , that would wake him. She had borne the brunt of his ridicule way too long . Always demeaning her when she bought more food , more Band-Aids , more more more. But didn't he understand that extra meant insurance against hard times ? Just like the insurance on the car , or the house.

"No , of course he didn’t get it. " she almost laughed out loud .

Walking toward the tiny closet , in the dark , she mentally rehearsed the location of each item on the shelves . This gave her strange comfort . “ My Grandpa taught me to prepare for hard times while you are living in the good times,” she told herself.

Just as she peered into the dark closet , the noise interrupted her racing thoughts. “Who’s there !?” she squeaked. There it was again. From the bulging closet. Like a faint thump. Or knock. She couldn’t identify which . As if that wasn’t enough to scare her real good , a box decided at that moment to fall from the top shelf right on her head. “ Owww Ohhh “ she reacted , immediately covering her mouth . “ Oh great. Make a big ‘ol noise “ she scolded herself silently. Reaching for the light switch , she stumbled over the box that had fallen down. “ Be careful," a voice cautioned her. Now she was terrified. The spit dried up in her mouth. “ Who who ah are yy you?” she barely stuttered , her words tumbling one over another. Nothing. No thumps or knocks. Just nothing.

Now she was getting more mad than terrified. “ I SAID WHO ARE YOU?” the words slid out through clenched teeth . Nothing .

Looking around to see if he awoke , she rubbed her swelling head . Crawling back into her cold side of the bed , with a sore head and a thumping heart , his rhythmic breathing assured her the noise hadn’t awakened him . The night was cold. Too cold for comfort. The soft blue chenille comforter her Grandma had made just for her , felt good against her face. “ Nice.” she told herself. “ Now quit imagining monsters . And the voice! How ridiculous . Bobby Glenn always said my imagination was bigger than that old apple tree down by the river ". That thought made her smile .

Bobby Glenn could always make her smile .

Settling into the bed , she was careful not to wake her husband. After all , he had to get up so early every morning. About 4:30 a.m. She calculated how long it would be until daylight. The soft green light from the Old Ben alarm clock was barely visible to her over his shoulder . “ One , two, three , four…” counting the hours in her head. “Five…what was that!?” she exclaimed out loud. He stirred but didn’t awaken. Her eyes popped open wide. Trying to calm herself , she knew she didn’t imagine THAT!

Their house sat on 13 acres of prime real estate , right in the middle of what outsiders usually called “Amish Country” . Her Grandpa and Grandma left her the house and all the property .The same house she had sat in as a child , wide eyed & heart pounding , listening to her Grandpa recount stories of ration cards, war news , struggles and sick children.

That was 1939. The news on the big radio that sat up front & center of the whole house was not good. Still she was fond of that big ‘ol radio . Rubbing her tiny fingers across the smooth wood , worn from generations of other children doing the same , she imagined places far away from the farm she knew . Even bad news was news , wasn’t it? She loved the snapping and popping when Grandpa desperately tried to dial in any news from the outside world .

Though just a 9 year old child, she sensed the worry in her beloved grandparents. Try as they may to shield her from the brutality of the times , she was smart and always knew more than she let on.

Their 19 year old son , Bobby Glenn , was 10 years her senior . He sure was a character , of that there was no doubt . Pulling pranks anytime he could find an opportunity. Once , he put a big ol frog in Grandma’s well bucket . You could hear her scream plum outside of Amish country , when she pulled that bucket from the deep water. “ Needless to say , I got out of the way when Grandpa dealt with him.” she said . “ I went behind the barn & laughed . Well , not really . I cried . Everyone knew Bobby Glenn was their pride & joy. But how much I loved him , no one knew that. ”

Grandma prayed he wouldn’t have to go fight in that horrible bloody war .Thanks to Bobby Glenn , she knew Grandma’s secret place . Often she would hide there and listen to Grandma cry and pray. “ I tried it myself a few times,” she said.” I figured God would likely pay more attention if the two of us talked to Him.” Grandma always said God answers with Yes, No , or Not Now. I asked Him to say yes this time. But he didn't. He said No. Sometime I’m gonna ask Him about that.

I said it once already , but I loved Bobby Glenn too .

I never told him.

That would be too mushy.

And he probably would have just played a joke on me anyways.

Me and Bobby Glenn often pulled apples off the old tree and threw them in the river . I still remember the splash and my squeals of laughter as he threw one after the other into the rushing water .

The perfect summer day . At least to me it was . I still smell the honeysuckles in bloom. It smelled just like honey to me . But this day was different .

" Kid , always remember me the way I am today .You promise ?“ He asked . “ I promise Bobby Glenn “ I answered , hoping I didn’t understand what he meant.

“ I’ll always be around to take care of you , no joking, “ he added. I nodded , unable to speak . Even a 9 year old's heart is deep .

After he left to go to that awful war , Grandpa and Grandma changed . Worry replaced the laughter , chores took longer , as they lingered to listen to that old radio . I hated the popping and cracking of that thing now .

Every day would find me under the apple tree , lying on my back , remembering how we threw apples in the river . Funny how I never threw them anymore . My time was spent remembering and waiting on Bobby Glenn .

One particularly warm , honey scented day , I spread one of Grandma’s little table cloths under the gnarled trunk of the tree , where the spongy green moss covered the ground .The cloth had teeny embroidered purple flowers around the edge. Grandma didn’t mind my using the cloth , she just cautioned me to bring it back.

Settling into my position under the apple tree , I saw a dust storm roaring down the gravel path to our house. The kind of dust storm a car stirs up when it is going way too fast . Seeing a car was unusual in itself , but the car's speed gave me a start. I stood up as quick as I could , bumping my head on a lower limb . That sent an apple rolling clear to the river . I had been busy that day carving numbers into the trunk of the old tree with my pocket knife. One number for every day Bobby Glenn had been gone . Today was number 35 . You could have heard Grandma scream 2 counties over . There was never to be number 36 .

Her hands trembled as she slowly slid the covers off of her side of the bed. Looking toward the closet, then back at the clock , she realized in 10 minutes her husband would turn off the alarm clock and get dressed to go to work. Forgetting the ragged green housecoat , she silently glided across the old cold floor. That same floor where as a child her Grandma taught her to pray , showed her how to love . The same room from where she could look down to the meadow where the apple tree was .

As her hand reached for the squeaky knob of the closet door , she could have sworn she smelled honeysuckles.

Looking back at her husband and the clock by the bedside , it was 2 minutes till the alarm would sound.

With understanding beyond her years , she turned the knob and opened the wooden door to the closet. “Yes , I know I smell honeysuckles “ ! Just as the alarm went off , she started to smile. Crossing into the darkness of the closet , the door closed softly behind her .

Her husband reached to turn off the alarm on the old wind up clock .

For a moment the usual shrill sound he expected was replaced with a strange popping , almost a cracking sound. It reminded him of the old Zenith radios used in wartime.

"I'm still dreamin' " he blurted into the dark room.

Wanting to ask her if she heard it too , he reached toward her side of the bed.

All he felt was cold .

Slowly turning his eyes toward her little closet , the faintest wiff of honey floated over him where he sat on the bed . Just like honeysuckle .

THE END

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