Murmuring

I thought I'd heard it several times before, only at night, and last night, I heard it for sure. Not whispering, really, but murmuring. Low, wordless, and—from my vantage point—unbroken. A steady stream of distinctly human sounds.

The thing that makes the hairs on my arms stand erect is that I heard it coming from my basement. I was in the bathroom. My aging bladder had gotten me up at four o'clock again—its latest trick—and when I turned the tap off after washing my hands, I heard it. There was no mistaking it this time. Those were human voices, heard through the bones and skin of the house. I couldn't make out any words, and as I walked slowly around the room, to find a spot where I could hear better, my heartbeat filling my ears, something in the floor creaked and the murmuring stopped. I stood, hands dripping like water clocks, and a few minutes later the sound returned. Someone was in the basement. Someone was living there, murmuring. I was afraid to move. I was afraid to leave the bathroom. I was afraid to leave Mary alone in bed, soft and sleeping and helpless. I was trapped. My feet were lead weights.

Finally, after two or three hour-long minutes, my hands still wet, my heart still jumping up and down in my chest, I left the bathroom noisily. The murmuring people already knew I was up here. There was no reason they had to know I knew they were down there.

I went into the bedroom and shut and locked the door behind me quickly. I had to grab Kong roughly by the scruff and drag her back inside with us. And then I fell into bed and strained for the murmuring until I drifted into a murky sleep a couple hours later.