Masuk Free Press

Every human is born with an innate sense that knows when they are being watched. 

Every human is also born to adapt. Any scent lingering in the air for long enough will fade to a person’s nose. A whirring, if it lasts long enough, will simply fade into background noise.

The Millers moved into a house at the end of Maple Lane in the final days of July, just in time to prepare for the new school year. Timmy Miller would begin second grade and Sally Miller would finally become a kindergartener. Their parents, Don and Martha, would see them off to the bus each morning before heading back inside to get ready for the day. 

Martha worked at an insurance company on Third Street while Don stayed home as a phone salesman. She would leave the house at 8:45 AM as Don placed his first call of the day, asking “Mrs. So and So” if she would be interested in purchasing any new exercise equipment.

That first day of school, August 31st, was the first day that Don was alone in the household. Until then, there was always someone going somewhere. A flight of stairs being walked up, a hallway being crossed. He had not entirely gotten a feel for the place, as it were. Obviously he knew the basics, such as where all of the cabinets were. But he did not know his home. He did not know any intimate details of the house. What floorboards creaked. Which air vents struggled to blow cool air into what rooms.

This being said, Don had no reason to suspect anything of the faint sheen of sweat on his upper brow. He merely wiped it away, continuing his conversation with a Mr. Robinson. 

“You say the little tyke broke the machine? Well it’s just your luck that I have the perfect replacement for you—”

It was an unseasonably warm summer in the Miller household.

“Don, I think the vents are on the fritz,” Martha told her husband one day late November. “I called the technician but he swears there’s nothing wrong with ‘em.”

“You know how these old houses are, Martie.” Don turned to his wife from where he stood doing up his tie in front of the mirror. He had decided early on in his career as a phone salesman that just because no one would be seeing him in his daily business was no excuse to not dress the part. “The AC was all over the place in the summer, it figures that it’s not perfect now that it’s gotten cold.”

“I thought we’d gotten that all squared away when we first moved in,” Martha said, a frown twisting her lips down.

Don simply shrugged. “I’ll make some calls today, does that sound alright? I’m sure we’ll get it fixed up in no time.”

“We’d better. It’s only going to get colder.” She checked her watch. “Oh golly. It’s 8:44, I’d better be off. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye, Martha, love ya!”

“Love you, too,” Martha called over her shoulder as she exited the bedroom.

Forty-eight hours later, Don was doing his best to drag himself through the day. He crossed off number after number, making his calls. He had been up late the previous night trying to get a hold of a technician that would be able to get the thermostat fixed.

Don finished up a call and set his phone down. I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute, he told himself. He propped his chin up on his fist, allowing his eyes to droop shut. Just a minute…

Don drifted in and out of consciousness. The line between the waking world and one made of dreams became blurred. Reality was just a figment of the imagination.

Don’s focus lazily caught onto something. From behind slatted white bars, a pair of brown eyes pressed deep into a dirty face appeared. The face was grotesque, a child’s school project gone wrong.

The sight jolted him out of his half-sleep. His gaze bounced around the living room before settling where they had been before Don had been so abruptly roused from his makeshift slumber.

The vents.

Unsettled, Don rose from his chair. “What on God’s green Earth—”

As he advanced towards the white caging, the floorboards creaked angrily. Don stopped. In the months that he had spent in this room, oftentimes pacing the floor as he made his calls, the floorboards had never creaked. He took a step backwards. 

Nothing. 

Spurred by curiosity, Don continued towards the vents, crouching down to inspect the metal. He ran a hand down the edge of it, no dust collecting on his fingertips.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Don stood and walked back to his chair. He really needed to be getting more sleep.

Perhaps it was this lack of sleep that allowed the memory to fade away, into something that could have believably been a dream.