Things That Go Bump in the Night Ch. 01

Things that Go Bump in the Night: "Well Actually..."

"Detective, listen to this," the sergeant called over to me and pointed to a digital recorder sitting on the missing author's desk. A light flashed indicating the device was full. Carefully, with a gloved hand, I pressed the play button not sure what I was going to hear...

"I want everyone to know what's happened. I want them to know," the author stressed that last word enough for both of the officer and I to take notice.

"From 1993 to 1999 I worked with a partner. Sure, everyone knows this, but it's important. I wrote suspense and mystery with Johnny Wheyl, whom I'd been friends with since we were in high school. We always collaborated and our mystery novels approached Christie's sales. Sure, we got on each other's nerves. You can't have two guys in a room without it happening once in a while. He has; excuse me; he had the most irritating habit of saying "Well, actually..." at the beginning of every sentence if he planned on disagreeing with you. I guess I should have noticed that he was saying "Well, actually" quite a lot in the summer of 1999."

"Everyone knows what happened between us, too. It was the headline from college newspapers to that early burgeoning phenomenon that somehow was christened as 'blogging'. If you asked our agent, we split due to creative differences. Truth of it was I created something and he tried handing it in as a solo work of his own. When the truth hit, he accused me right back of trying to steal his work."

The author's voice was uncomfortable. It was mixed with anger and possibly a bit of guilt. I heard it immediately; it was in my job description to hear stress in a voice.

"It went to the courts. Johnny came unglued and made a fool of himself. I remained calm and stuck to the facts. God bless computers, they leave a wonderful trail of evidence. Johnny was ruined and my reputation was cleared. I kept on writing and while a lot of the magic was gone without Johnny I did pretty well. Not as well as King, obviously, but I didn't have to work and I pay my bills and I was pretty satisfied with how I bopped along. Johnny tried to keep writing but no agent or publisher would touch him."

"Do you think he killed this partner?" The Sergeant asked. I shushed the officer and the recording continued.

"I haven't talked to him since our day in court. I thought about it from time to time but I just couldn't forgive him for trying to push me out of my creation," there was a long pause after this where the officers could hear the sound of liquid pouring. Being a good investigator the I noted the half empty gallon jug of iced tea on the table. At least if the author was drinking tea, he was sober.

"So, two nights ago I woke up around 2:35. I clearly remember the time because when I was a kid it was 2:35 in the afternoon that we were dismissed from school every day. I couldn't breathe and as my mind assimilated this, I have to admit I panicked and tried to sit up. I couldn't move. I couldn't lift my head, I couldn't lift my body, I couldn't even lift my arms. My hands clenched helplessly as I tried to push up and simply just move. After several seconds I let out a shriek and sat up so fast I bounced into the air. As I sat there gasping, I was struck wide-eyed as I heard them. I know I heard them; footsteps walking down my hallway away from the bedroom. I snapped my light switch on and grabbed the aluminum bat that I keep near my headboard and jumped into...the empty hallway. I was pretty glad that cable runs movies all night..."

"I think I fell back asleep on my couch around six o'clock. I must have looked like a little kid sitting there clutching an aluminum baseball bat watching one late night garbage movie after another and I will tell you I felt pretty silly when I woke up four hours later. I called a friend who's a doctor and told him everything. He listened quietly from start to finish without making any noise, not so much as a sigh. He waited until I was done before he even considered speaking and right then and there, I couldn't have been more grateful for his ability to listen to everything before speaking."

"It's called Sleep Paralysis, Bill," he said, "Sometimes if a person's sleep is interrupted the chemical your brain produces to keep you from moving around while you dream hasn't worn off and you can't move or even really think straight."

"What about the footsteps?"

"Likely just a little left over from what you were dreaming. Your brain just hadn't cleared out the ole' buffer yet," he said.

"I was pretty satisfied with the answer and went about my business for the rest of the day. I I woke up with that pinned feeling again and my mind begged me to keep my cool. Just...sleep...paralysis. Nothing to be afraid of."

"I didn't have to look at the clock, but I tried anyway. I knew it was 2:35 but I couldn't even turn my head to confirm my suspicions."

The author was clearly distraught on the tape. He sounded near tears.

"I heard it then. I heard his voice. It was clear and it was real and it was right by my ear. 'Well, actually Billy,' it said, 'if this was sleep paralysis you wouldn't have been able to turn your head to look at the clock.' I felt hands dig into my throat trying to choke the air from me. It took forever but I finally let out a shout that literally woke my neighbor up but I didn't care."

"The movies were just as bad that night."

"I fell back asleep sometime after dawn. I don't know when but I know the sun was up. I was so tired I slept through the phone. I must have because the answering machine was blinking twice for two messages. I hit the play button and a girl's voice popped to life. 'Hi Billy,' she said clearly near tears. I knew the voice but couldn't place it, 'this is Tam, Tamara Weyl. You know, Johnny's sister. Look, I have bad news. Johnny...he...he hung himself the other night. I found him when I went over to take him dinner. He'd been sick lately and...look give me a call. I want a friendly voice.'

"The message ended and the second one began. It was dead air. Nothing was there, not even static noise. Somehow, though my spine was cold and I suddenly had to go to the bathroom VERY badly, I picked up the phone and began paging through the caller ID. Tam called an hour ago. There were no other calls."

"I wanted someone to hear this. I hope I get to play it for them so we can laugh and I think I needed to say it, so it'd be real and not just running around in my head. It's 2:30 in the morning now. I decided I wasn't going to sleep tonight. If Johnny was coming, I would stay up to meet him face to face. Well, if he still had a face. You get the idea. The house is quiet. I can't even hear the road." There was another long pause.

"Look at that. 2:36 and no Johnny. Guess a little bit of missing a friend and some bad movies can just..."

The recording skipped for a split second. The author's voice faltered and fell silent as another voice, low and guttural groaned from the digital recorder. "Well, actually..."

Both the sergeant and I jumped and promptly looked at each other, ashamed of being what we called "rookie jumpy."

After the recorder went silent the sergeant and I looked at each other and finally gave a nervous laugh. "Guess he was trying his hand at a horror tale," the sergeant said, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

I bagged the recorder, noting its location on the desk. It was then I noticed it was still playing. The recording hadn't run out yet but there was dead silence. No static, no background noise from the room or the street and no sign of life.

I looked closely at the recorder pressing the fast forward button hoping to find where the sound began again. Time and time again I was greeted with silence. "Hmph," he grunted, "guess it died."

I thumbed the stop button but before I could press it, he heard a quiet mumble from the recorder. Carefully I took it from the bag and reversed the recording a minute or two back and listened closely. It was still nothing but a mumble. I reversed it again and turned the volume all the way up. Putting the recorder close to my ear I listened as carefully as I could--shutting all the noise of the room and the street out as best as I could. I concentrated on the recording. The sergeant leaned in, straining to hear what I was listening for.

For several seconds I was rewarded with the strange noiseless silence that had us convinced the recorder was broken. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, two voices came from the speaker. The sergeant's eyes flew wide as he made out the same low, growling voice from before and a second voice that was even quieter but unmistakably the voice of Bill Thayer, the mystery author and owner of this digital recorder.

"Well, actually detective..."