I have been hearing the noises for the past three days. It echoes upstairs through the thin floorboards and cheap indoor/outdoor carpet in my bedroom. The vibrations wake me from a restless sleep as I crawl from under the warm covers to see what is going on. My feet hit the bottom squeaky step, a flashlight whipping its bright beam through the dark rooms, as the sound suddenly disappears. The bathroom, the livingroom, the linen closet, all is quiet. When entering the kitchen, my light brightens the counter as Marie winces at the offensive disturbance to her cat dreams. Donny - the second cat - comes over to rub my leg as he does his raspy meows thinking it is chow time: Meow - food - meow - food now -meow - you can’t go back to sleep without feeding me - meow.
But I do make my way back upstairs, shaking my head thinking that perhaps the sound had been a leftover dream fragment.
1:00am . . .
The noises are back. Music. Some ignorant bar-hopper is blasting his car radio in the hopes that this will deter any cops from arresting him for drunk driving. I wait for the music to fade away down the street but for some reason it is sticking around here. Maybe the neighbors are having a wild party and forgot to invite me. I hurry to put on my nightgown before going over to the bedroom window and sliding the pane up. Next door, the neighbor is pushing her own window open and sticking her head out the window. Before I can say anything she shouts, "Can you turn down your radio? My husband has a colonoscopy scheduled for tomorrow and needs his rest."
From in their bedroom I hear her husband moaning, "Play the Death March for me."
They are right. With my head stuck out the window I can hear the music coming from my own house. Wondering if I have some disco-dancing burglars in the house, I grab the mace and head downstairs. I hit the bottom squeaky step. The music stops. My search through the house turns up nothing but one eye-wincing cat and her buddy scratching at the cupboard door wanting his shrimp and tuna late night snack from the silver can.
2:00am . . .
I did not go back to sleep. I am waiting at the middle of the staircase, listening carefully. I have the mace and flashlight sitting in my lap when the music starts to play again. And there are disturbing voices singing to it. Carefully, I avoid the bottom step and hurry down the hall. I peek around the corner and become shocked to the core at what I found. But they have spotted me. I hear them scrambling toward me as I try to run, accidently dropping the mace and flashlight in my panic. I almost reach the stairs when I feel something smack into my head. The house goes even darker as I fall toward the floor.
9:00am . . .
Right now I am typing this post with my nose. My hands are tied to the chair. Please send help! I am a prisoner in my own home with my captors passed out on the floor after their wild night. I cannot take their torture anymore. They have been singing "The Osmonds Greatest Hits" for the past seven hours while sipping on dairy creamers and smoking on some green leaves they call, "nippy." I am sure my mind will crack if I have to go through another night of this. Yet if my end comes before you arrive, I want everyone to know what my captors look like. I was able to take their picture with the computer’s webcam.
Please make my karoke kitties, Marie and Donny, stop singing "The Osmonds."
*Picture courtesy of laughingwolf who also dared me to write a story about it*
*Although I will be blogging for this holiday weekend, I am sure my readers have a better life than my pathetic one. So I am posting Sunday’s story today so everyone can read it. I’ll see everyone on Tuesday. Bring your holiday stories with you. I could use more material to write about*