Dead Quiet

It’s too quiet in here.

Once I stop typing and just sit at my desk, there is no noise around me. I don’t hear cars driving by, or the heater running, or even a hum from my computer.

I wait for something to break the silence. A car door slamming, a breeze rattling the leaves on the trees, my neighbor’s dog barking at nothing as usual. Nothing comes. For a moment, I wonder if my ears are failing me.

My back stiffens from sitting too still, waiting for some sort of noise. I hold my breath and listen harder. Nothing. The silence grows heavier the longer I wait, until I can hear my own pulse throbbing behind my ears. My breath sounds rough, uneven, and foreign, as if it doesn’t belong to me.

I press a key on my keyboard, the sound piercing the quiet like a gunshot.

So I can still hear. Then why is it so quiet?

Only a few minutes ago, the neighborhood had been alive with the typical sounds of a sunny Tuesday afternoon. Then, everything suddenly stopped, and the only thing I could hear was my own typing.

The quiet lingers for so long this time that I’m afraid to make another sound. A humming is building in my ears so intensely that I flex my jaw to try to clear it, the usual clicking sound momentarily providing relief. But then it builds up again, the pressure growing until I think my eardrums will blow.

I need to move, I can’t stand this anymore. I rise slowly and as quietly as I can, but my body betrays me. The tendons in my knees and even my toes snap slightly as I stand and walk, and I wince, feeling as if they might have just given me away to some unseen danger. But there is still no other sound but the ones that I am making.

Sliding my socked feet along the wood floor, I leave my office and head toward the living room. My eyes scan my surroundings, as if expecting something to jump out at me. There is nothing there, no one home but me.

I go to the window, and it’s eerily still outside. No breeze moving the trees, no neighbors out working in their yards, no squirrels or dogs, or even a fly. I don’t know how long I stand there staring, waiting for something to move. For the sounds of the neighborhood to start back up again.

The feeling of wrongness now makes my stomach knot. I consider that I might be dreaming. This is not a typical dream for me, though. I can feel every muscle ache from sitting too long, and I can feel my nails digging into my palms exactly as I should feel them. Even the texture of the rough edges of the wood floor catching against my socks is more detail than my brain usually comes up with in dreams.

Dreaming or not, something about this isn’t right.

A flicker of movement in the hallway out of the corner of my eye makes me jump. I slip for a moment on the wood and catch myself on the couch. My heart is hammering in my chest now. I force a shaky laugh out at my jumpiness, trying to slow my pulse down.

“Sarah?” I call out. My voice feels too loud in the silence, and I flinch. No response. I wait, but I still don’t hear anything.

It had to be Sarah, my roommate. Who else could it be?

I swallow hard, a sudden chill crawling over me.

“Sarah, please don’t mess with me,” I say, quieter this time. The first syllable comes out as a squeak.

I creep towards the hallway, watching the open doors carefully. Then I catch movement out of the corner of my eye again, this time from my office. My stomach drops. How could anyone have gotten in there without me seeing?

I feel around my pockets, but my phone is on my desk. I bite my lip until it hurts.

Backing toward the sliding door that leads to the deck, I keep scanning the house around me, ready to run if I see something. My hip bumps the door handle, and I reach for it. I unlock it carefully, keeping my back to the door.

As soon as I slide the door open, I turn to bolt outside, but I feel a hand grab my shoulder.

I scream and whip my arm around to slap the hand away — and my head jerks off my keyboard. The movement sends me off balance, and I fall to the floor. I jump to my feet, disoriented, and realize I am back in my office, alone.

The familiar sounds of my overhead fan, the neighbor’s dog barking, someone playing music loudly as they race by — all of the usual sounds that bother me while I’m trying to work, now a relief.

I groan when I check the computer screen. The document I was working on was now entirely filled with the letter F repeated.

I roll my eyes and let out a long breath. “That was a weird dream,” I mutter to myself.

My neck aches from sleeping at my desk. I stretch, roll my shoulders, and shake out my limbs. The tension eases a bit.

I head towards the kitchen to make some tea, my feet sinking into soft carpet.

The dog is barking so loudly now that I’m tempted to confront my neighbor next time I see him. It almost drowns out the sound of the house fans.

The kitchen counter is bare, the teapot and appliances all put away for some reason. I check the cabinets, but they are also empty. Then I realize the fridge is missing, as is the back door to the deck. The room feels entirely alien to me, and my feet sink further down into the carpet.

A siren starts in the distance and rapidly gets louder as it passes by my house. I cover my ears until it is gone.

The house changes again, and I know now I’m dreaming. I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to wake up, my chest tightening when it doesn’t work.

The noise from outside is suddenly overwhelming. The walls vibrate from cars driving by, as if I am living next to a speedway.

I try to run, but my legs feel heavy, and my feet stick to the carpet.

The sounds around me grow louder and louder, until I can’t even hear myself scream.

I jerk awake — again — back at my keyboard.

I stare at the screen in front of me. My document is still filled, but with alternating blocks of G and H. I reach out and turn my monitor off. Tomorrow I’ll tell my boss that I got sick. If I wake up tomorrow.

Hood up, head down, I head towards my bedroom. I fight the urge to check my surroundings, ignore any sounds or lack thereof.

My room is where it should be, and my bed is made, just as I left it. I lock the door behind me, climb into bed without bothering to change clothes, and pull the pillow over my ears. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. I feel myself starting to drift off, although I can't quite shake the feeling that I might still be dreaming.

Next time I wake up, I'd better still be here.