A Haunting: My True Story
Last Wednesday night, the house was silent.
I’d just set my iPhone’s alarm. I was well situated in bed, and slowly descending into a haze of unconsciousness. At the edge of my darkening senses, I noticed a slight disturbance.
“Hert tort murdatort,” it said.
The noise briefly tickled me awake, but I soon succumbed to sleep’s gravity.
Friday, I was up late. I killed the Netflix window on my laptop, waited out the shut down process, and closed the lid; checked the locks, brushed my teeth, turned off the lights, cracked the window.
Bedtime.
“Blurgen murgle gomtorl,” said a nearly inaudible voice.
After a moment’s consideration, I came to the conclusion that one of our neighbours, an elderly pair of ex-bankers, was also burning the midnight oil. My mind floated a note of concern – Mr. Banker had recently fought off cancer, and had had the situation compounded by a heart problem. Nine days earlier, we’d seen him wheeled from his home on a stretcher.
I couldn’t help but recall my own grandfather, who’d spent his last week in a darkened room with a murmuring television. He’d only been waiting at that point.
“Dor blor quant,” said the ghostly TV.
I went to bed.
Yesterday morning I’d intended to rise at the usual time, but, as my iPhone began to bleat the theme to The Monkees, I punched the snooze button. Ten more minutes seemed a critical necessity.
I found, however, that I couldn’t quite recapture my slumber.
“Tolk borl gumshaw,” remarked the apparition.
Though I couldn’t make out the words, the cadence was familiar: A morning news anchor, small talking.
In the days of my youth I’d awoken often to the sound at my grandparents’ farm. I’d never been successful in rising before either of them, and would often steal some last minute warmth from the blankets while listening to a similar muttering from the kitchen. This memory brought to mind the smell of baking bread and freshly made porridge – staples of my weekend visits.
Realizing my catnap was a failure, I braced myself, then rose from the bed.
The window was closed. It was an odd thing, as I like to sleep in a chill, and usually leave it slightly ajar.
It also meant the disembodied voice couldn’t be emanating from next door.
“Gurkle murk,” said the spook.
That’s when I realized it wasn’t my ailing neighbour which was haunting me: It was my own toddlers. Turning to our nearly abandoned alarm clock, the settings of which had obviously been knocked awry by tiny fingers, I wheeled up the volume and turned off the chattering radio.
Is technology beginning to haunt us all? Even something low-tech like a radio can be weird. I predict we’ll all be completely mad in another 20 years.
In that case, I hope we have a Twilight Zone ending, and our insane selves are all overseen by robot caretakers.
Awesome! I’m definitely a slave to technology. A friend who works graveyards recently pointed out that he won’t text me in the middle of the night because he has noticed I reply immediately (I do). I’m also “that guy” when it comes to checking email/twitter in the middle of the night. Who is the master and who is the servant?
At least in your case, you had the willpower to use the off switch!
Jeff, 20 years? Optimist!
I absolutely know what you mean about Middle of the Night Reply syndrome.
Perhaps I should just stow the phone in another room and go back to the old alarm, but what if I’m not on hand to reply to that Nigerian Minister of Finance when he finally tells me where he’s going to wire my money?
Great story!
I do agree that technology is haunting us.
Recently I had an incident with a certain lamp which turned on and off the light as if by magic.
It took me a while to figure out that the ghost tried to tell me that the switch was defect.
Just the radio? You had me convinced it was the ghost of the Swedish Chef, but then I wasn’t sure he was dead.
Nah, it’s the kitchen that’s haunted by the ghost of the Swedish Chef, and he largely only comes out when the chocolate moose is roaming around.