Линвуд Баркли - A Noise Downstairs

“Coming to terms with what Kenneth did doesn’t mean you have to confront his boy. What do they say about the sins of the father shall not be visited upon the son?”

Paul grinned. “Actually, I think it’s the other way around.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You get my point.”

“I do.”

Charlotte sighed, then trudged upstairs. By the time Paul had tidied the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the bedroom, Charlotte was under the covers making soft breathing noises.

Paul slipped under the covers stealthily, taking care not to wake Charlotte. He reached over to the lamp and plunged the room into darkness.

In seconds, he was asleep.

It was just after two in the morning when he heard the sounds.

He became aware of them while he was still asleep, so when he first opened his eyes, and heard nothing, he thought he must have been dreaming.

There was nothing.

But then he heard it again.

Chit chit. Chit chit chit. Chit. Chit chit.

He immediately knew the sound. It was a new one to the household but instantly recognizable. One floor down, someone was playing with the antique typewriter in his cramped office.

He gently ran his hand across the sheet until he felt Charlotte there. So, it wasn’t her. As if that would have made any sense, her getting up in the middle of the night to mess about with her gift to him.

That left Josh.

Paul squinted at the clock radio on the table beside him. It was 2:03 A.M. Why the hell would Josh go down and play with the typewriter now? Or at all, given that he’d hurt himself on it and professed to hate the thing.

Paul gently pulled back the covers, put his feet down to the floor, and stood. Wearing only his boxers, he walked out of the bedroom and into the hall, not turning on any lights.

Chit chit.

He went straight past Josh’s closed door and down the stairs, keeping his hand on the railing. It wasn’t just because of the dark; he was not fully awake and slightly woozy. When he reached the kitchen, the various digital lights on the stove, microwave, and toaster cast enough light that he could see where he was going.

The door to his small study was closed, and there was no sliver of light at the base. He turned the knob, pushed open the door far enough to reach around and flip the light switch, then pushed the door open all the way.

Josh was not there.

No one was there. The chair was empty.

But the typewriter was there.

There was no paper in it. The single sheet with Josh typed on it remained on the desk.

Paul stared at the scene for several seconds, then glanced back into the kitchen. The way he figured it, Josh must have heard him coming, ducked out, hid behind the kitchen island, then scooted back upstairs the second Paul stepped into his office.

Sure enough, when Paul went back upstairs and peeked into Josh’s room, the boy was under the covers, eyes closed, buds tucked into his ears.

The little bugger .

Paul smiled to himself. He’d conduct a proper interrogation in the morning.

Paul had been in his office for an hour, on his third cup of coffee and researching online what made supposedly good people do bad things, when Josh, still in his pajamas, came padding down the stairs to the kitchen.

Paul closed the laptop, came out, went to the fridge, and got out a container of milk. “Cheerios?” he asked his son.

Josh muttered something that sounded like a yes and sat at the table. Paul put a bowl of cereal in front of him, splashed on some milk, and grabbed a spoon from the cutlery drawer. Josh stared sleepily into the bowl as he scooped a spoonful of cereal and shoved it into his mouth.

“How are you this morning?” Paul asked, glancing at the wall clock. It was half past ten.

Josh made a noise that was little more than a soft grunt.

“You really slept in,” his father said.

Josh glanced for a second at his father. Paul noticed there was still some sleep in the corner of his eyes. “It’s Sunday.”

“True enough. But you seem a little more tired than usual.”

“I had bad dreams,” Josh said, going back to his cereal. “We shouldn’t have watched that movie.”

“Sorry. I should have picked something else, but the thing is, almost any movie can remind us of something bad that’s happened to us.”

Charlotte appeared, both hands to one ear, attaching an earring. “Hey, you two,” she said.

“Heading out already?” Paul said. “I thought your open house was at two.”

“It is. But I have to make sure the house is presentable. Last time I was there the master bedroom floor was littered with laundry and there were half a dozen dog turds in the yard. And I want to pick up some frozen bread, put it in the oven.”

Josh perked up. “Why?”

“Old real estate trick. Make the house smell nice.”

She pulled out the glass carafe from the coffeemaker and frowned when she found it nearly empty.

“Sorry,” Paul said. “I already went through a pot. I was up kind of early. Couldn’t sleep.” He tipped his head toward the study. “Thought I’d get back to it.”

“How’s it going?”

Paul shrugged. He slipped into a chair across from his son. Josh yawned, looked at the wall clock, and rested his spoon in the bowl. “I gotta get ready. Mom and Walter will be here soon.”

He started to push back his chair but was stopped when Paul reached out and gently grabbed his wrist.

“So you want to tell me what you were up to in the middle of the night?”

“Huh?” Josh said.

“I heard you. Around two in the morning.”

“What’s this?” Charlotte said, putting a new filter into the coffeemaker and spooning in some ground coffee.

Paul said, “I thought you hated that typewriter, but you got up in the middle of the night to play with it.”

“What?”

“I know what I heard,” Paul said. “I know it wasn’t Charlotte, because she was in the bed right next to me.”

“It wasn’t me,” Josh said. “Why would I play with that stupid typewriter?”

“Come on, pal. You’re not in trouble, except maybe for not being truthful with me now.”

“I’m not lying,” he said.

Paul gave him a look of disappointment. “Okay, Josh.”

Charlotte, pouring water into the coffee machine, said, “I don’t understand. You heard the typewriter in the night?”

“Yup,” Paul said.

Charlotte gave him a quizzical look. “And it’s somehow a big deal if Josh was messing around with it? It’s built like a tank. He can’t break it.”

“It wasn’t me,” Josh said again. “I’m glad Mom is coming.” He got up from the table and fled up the stairs to his room.

Charlotte gave her husband a look.

“What?” Paul said.

“Has it occurred to you that maybe you dreamed it? You heard some tap tap tapping in your sleep?”

Doubt crept across Paul’s face.

“Okay, the first time I heard it, I was in bed, probably half-asleep.”

“There you go.”

Hesitantly, he added, “But then I got up and heard it again when I was going down the hall.”

Charlotte slowly shook her head. “Your mind plays funny tricks on you when you’re half-awake, or half-asleep, that time of night. Maybe you heard something else. Some kind of house noise. A ticking radiator or something.”

“This house doesn’t have rads.”

“Whatever.” While the coffee brewed she took a seat at the table. “Look, you’ve been under an enormous strain lately. Don’t take it out on Josh.”

Paul ran a hand over his mouth and shook his head.

The doorbell rang.

Paul tipped his head back and shouted to the upper floor, “Josh! Your mom’s here!”