'Tis the Wind, and Nothing More...

Tis the Wind, and Nothing More...


         It was late.  Probably 12:30 or so and I had just completed some ambiguous assignment from a monotonously remedial college course.  I peeled my sweat soaked thighs from the plastic deck chair I use for computing comfort and strolled blurry eyed two doors down the hall to my patiently waiting unkempt, soggy mattress.  "Mmmm," I thought.  "Sleep."
         With my attention sucking ogre of a dog miraculously resting quietly at the foot of the bed, I relaxed into the possibility of sugar coated slumber doused with visions of youthful maidens in cotton spring dresses running through tall summer grass.  Only the occasional lick or chomp from the grooming mutt caused a refrain from promising glorious sleep.  Good night, cruel world.  Good night...
         "SCRAAAAAAAPE!!"  From left to right, the blight on my ears woke me with a start.  I shot up and stared out the window above my head, waiting to see some escaped skull raper, or at least a twig, dancing on the pane of glass that precariously held back the elements.  As I watched, the wind shoved the bushes around with the ferocity of a two year old throwing a temper tantrum.  I eyed the dutiful dog at my feet to see if he shared my alarm.  Random kicking and sleepy growls proved his vitality, and his unconsciousness.  "Only the wind..." I said to myself foolishly.  In shame of cautious paranoia, I rested once again, and soon awoke refreshed in the morning.
         A week later it happened again.  Basically the same scene, but this time no wind.  I dressed minimally and ventured out back to catch the would be Peeping Tom or viciously dismember the innocent twig once and for all. When I arrived at the source of my anxiety, though, there was nothing.  No twig.  No perpetrator.  No nothing.  With flashlight in hand, I desperately searched the back yard for signs of intrusion, while my dog frantically sought a suitable place to move his bowels.  Defeated, in to bed I went.  Once again, I told myself it must be the wind.  "It must be."
         "Did you hear that?" I asked Sara as we lay talking and falling fast to sleep about a month later.  "Did you just hear that noise?"  This time it was louder than ever, so deafness would be the only excuse for ignorance.
         "Hear what?" she replied with irritation.  "Did you hear what I was just saying? I wanted to know if you..."
         Once again I looked out the window to see a total lack of wind.  Once again I looked down at the dog, who scampered in his dreams.  Once again, even with two viable witnesses, there was no explanation for this noise – this awful scraping shrill that filled my ears from left to right.  Always from left to right.  Always when I was falling asleep.  Always in the dead of night.  Always loud as a baby's wale.  Always...in my head.  The sound – this hideous scraping – that fueled my fears and eluded the ear of everyone else, was mine and mine alone - and it was as real as train wreck.
         As Sara continued to drone on about nonsense and trite, I stared out into the open air.  Was this some random flashback seeping from the depths of my spinal cord, rooted in my days as an experimental youth?  What if I was experiencing the acute and sudden onslaught of schizophrenia?  Or could this simply be a symptom of the stress induced by a failing fledgling relationship?  I waited like a man with a catapult aimed at his forehead.  When would it fire?  Was this only the beginning?  And if this was merely the start, was I doomed to a fate which I could do nothing to alter?

I never heard the sound again.

This is a true story.