Original Scary Fiction
The following story is an original work. It may not be reproduced or published elsewhere without the author's permission.
To obtain permission or to get more info, contact Scuttles@ScaryPlace.com.This story contains content that may be disturbing to some people.
But then you expected that, otherwise you wouldn't be here, would you?
Soundwaves
by Mary Masterilli
(Originally published under the pen name M. C. Masters)
Copyright 1999 All rights reserved
From the foot of the stairs, where Karen lies in a pool of blood, I hear the humming whisper of street lamps outside my window. Rain pummels the glass like tiny claws. A branch screaks against the pane. My bowels clench. I stumble over twisted limbs, fighting dizziness and nausea.
The waves are calling me.
I cock my head and listen. Clink...hiss...thunk...drip... Will this house never be silent? Besieged by noise, I can hardly hear myself think.
I cup my ears and listen for the soundless rush of waves...
...
I was watching the tube when I had my first attack of nausea. It was a perfect day for doing nothing, and I was doing it perfectly: beer in hand, sandwiches, potato chips, remote control, my favorite Western hero running the bad guys out of town on a rail. I didn't want anything to spoil the mood. I was about to take the phone off the hook when suddenly the sky opens up ...Brrr-ATTT ...Brrr-ATTT ...Brrr-ATTT. What the fuck?
All I could hear, up and down the street, was the pounding roar of jackhammers pulverizing rock. Brrr-ATTT... On my screen, the action was heating up, John Wayne duking it out with the men in black. An engine whirred to life just as the villain reached for his sidearm, calling the Duke a yella-belly, calling him out. I strained to catch my hero's retort, but it was lost in the drone of machinery.
A wrecking ball slammed into rock. The picture jumped, the earth shook. The low rumble of steamrollers jarred my teeth, going straight to my gut. Jesus Christ! When would it stop?
" Relax," Karen told me. " You're on vacation."
She was stretched out on the sofa, skimming the latest Cosmo, apparently unfazed by the grab-your-ass-it's-the-end-of-the-world sounds of construction across the street. Suzie had been packed off to my mother's, but not before a whining protest that brought on her asthma quicker than the dust outside. The bird flapped nervously in its cage. The dog was hiding under my chair. Every house on the block was closed up tight. Bill, next door, was arguing with his wife.
It was the noise. It made everyone edgy.
Only the Duke was keeping his cool. He swaggered up to the bar, shoulders squared, facing down the bad guy, hand poised for the draw. I leaned into my set, eager, expectant. Then came the thunder, a sound like an army of tanks mobilizing for war.
I flew to the window just as a trio of huge earth-moving machines came barreling over the hill. Vertigo tied my guts in a knot. I doubled over and lost my lunch on Karen's potted palm.
I saw my doctor the following day. He gave me a clean bill of health and a lecture on the evils of stress. I ignored him. I was only there to please the wife. After filling a prescription for tranquilizers I would never take, I wound up in High-Rise Records browsing their Dylan collection. My idea of good medicine.
I picked out Blood on the Tracks and paid the clerk. On the wall above the register, a bright display caught my eye. " Environmental music," it read. " Discover peace of mind - get your tape today!" Soundwaves, they were called. Some sweetness-and-light New Age hippie bullshit, I thought. What the hell. I bought one.
Within the hour I was a changed man. Sprawled in my favorite chair, feet up, eyes closed, pillow under my head, I was completely at one with the cushions, more relaxed than I'd felt in years. I was floating. Detached, yet alert. It was like Valium without the sedation.
It must have been the subliminals, because the soundtrack on " Cape May Sunrise" wasn't all that soothing. The raucous laughter of gulls made my skin crawl. The wind in the reeds made an eerie, howling kind of music. The surf crashing, driving, drowning. Still I listened, mesmerized, awash in whispers from the deep. They promised peace. Silence.
When Monday arrived I became anxious. Work was a demon I didn't feel ready to face. Accounts receivable floating far away in my mind, I left the house like a turtle abandoning its shell. Construction crews were already on the job, firing up their power tools. I flipped them the finger and hurried on. The freeway was a tangle of blaring horns, angry shouting, the usual rush-hour clatter. I chewed antacids and shouted back. When I finally arrived at my desk, I was trembling. A backlog of paperwork awaited me.
I worked late.
I got home around midnight, went straight for my chair. The house was still, but not entirely silent. " Plip! Plip! Plip!" went the faucet. The dog made a sound like a vacuum, growling in her sleep. The fridge rattled. The bird squawked. Something went " thunk" on the stairs.
" Karen?" I called. My voice echoed. No answer came back.
Just jumpy, I guessed.
I reached for my tape, tuned in, fell asleep. I dreamed of whispering waves folding me in a blanket of calm. And wind...wind that spoke in a hollow voice, words I couldn't quite catch. And gulls, hundreds, thousands of gulls, taunting me with their cries as I reached into the sky and pulled them down, one by one, until they were silent. When I awoke, Suzie's canary was limp in my hands, the beak ripped out of its skull. I tore off the headphones, triumphant.
Peace would be mine!
The clock struck two. I slammed it with my fist. The tape deck hummed, still playing. I yanked the cord. I pulled every plug in every room on every clanking, rattling, squeaking, whining, humming Goddamn appliance. Then I got my toolbox and went outside.
I silenced the jackhammers, the air compressors, the mixers, the cranes, the big earth-movers. I worked slowly, methodically, without a sound. The result was nothing less than perfection. When the sun rose over the Shady Grove Construction Project and I finally laid down my tools, the site was littered with engine parts and bits of prefab and mounds of tortured, twisted steel. It was beautiful.
Satisfied with my work, I went home. Karen was waiting on the porch. She met me on the steps, blocking my way, her eyes livid. " What in hell are you doing?" she demanded.
I pushed past her into the house, ignoring the waves, the whispers, gripping my wrench like a shield.
" Answer me!" she cried.
Her voice was like a vise clamping down on my stomach. I gagged.
Karen slammed the door. " WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?"
I turned at the sound, swinging my fist. Her face caved in beneath my wrench. Cartilage snapped like kindling, bone grinding against bone. She screamed, then made no more sound. Kneeling beside her, I checked for a pulse. Her limbs twitched once, then a final spasm wracked her spine and she was still, silent. Relief washed over me like a tide.
Beneath it all, a watery voice, the waves calling me...
...
I fight the nausea with deep breaths, straining to hear. Words form in my head, growing hazy even as I try to focus my thoughts. I concentrate, closing my mind to everything else, opening myself to the soundless rush of waves.
I hear the voice clearly now. " Relax," it says. " Relief is near."
I take another deep breath. I feel the tension drain from my limbs. My head begins to clear as a picture takes shape, one of vast, open spaces and yawning silence.
I begin to see the peace that can be mine.
Then something growls, from behind. I spin on my heels, wielding the wrench. The dog skitters away, startled. She barks.
" Shut up," I command.
She barks again, louder this time. I put out my hand to coax her. " Take it easy, girl," I tell her. " It's all right, Princess."
She inches forward now, cautiously sniffing the air. As she licks my palm I bring the wrench down hard on her skull. A solid " crack" rings out. She howls, and I wince.
I strike again. Sharp rap of metal on bone. A muffled whine. The scraping of nails against the hardwood floor. Then silence.
Soon, release.
I open her mouth, clamp the wrench tight around her tongue, pulling hard ... harder. Tendons give. A gout of mucus slaps my cheek. Then it's free, a slab of pale, muted meat. Now one less voice fills my head.
Upstairs, a door creaks open. My blood freezes. I turn.
I am greeted by Suzie's stuffy whine. " What's all the noise, Daddy?"
I cringe.
A voice like breakers sings in my head. " Relax," it says. " Make your peace." I take a deep breath.
The waves pull me in.