Night Music

It wasn't until construction began that we discovered we live in a haunted house. That's right. Our house is as haunted as Edgar Allen Poe's mind.

No, we don't see ghosts in white sheets or little girls in flowing nightgowns carrying candles down narrow staircases. But our house is haunted nonetheless.

We hear music, beautiful music. It's taken us a while to accept the soulful song of what sounds like a cello coming from somewhere deep within the house, but there's no question it's there. Late at night, after the kids are asleep and the TV is silenced, once the telephone no longer threatens to break the calm and our family sleeps peacefully, it starts. At first, a low hum vibrates through the dark; then it increases--not in volume but in intensity--until it keeps pace with our breathing.

"What's that noise?" my wife asked the first night after construction to the house began. We had hired a crew to tear down the old, dark addition to the house with its leaky roof and paneled walls and replace it with a large, airy room to give the kids additional play space.

"I don't know," I said. "Probably the wind."

"Would you check it out, please?"

I sighed dramatically making sure my wife appreciated the sacrifice I was making leaving the comfort of our bed to traipse around the house trying to identify an unknown sound.

The hum was low and steady, like a gentle wave or a cellist caressing a note in one direction and then slowly caressing it in the other direction. Instinctively, I headed for the addition, watching out for nails and other sharp objects. But the sound wasn't coming from that part of the house. I checked the windows in the kitchen and the other rooms on the ground floor. Everything was sealed tight. I climbed the stairs to the children's rooms as quietly as I could and stood outside their doors listening. But all I heard was the peaceful breathing of our two children.

I opened the door to Tommy's room, trying hard not to wake him. I could hear the cello-like strain in the distance but it wasn't coming from his room. I entered Beth's room, all pink and frilly with stuffed animals everywhere. We probably overdid it, I thought, but Beth seemed to like it.

"Daddy, do you hear it?"

"Shh, honey," I said. "Go back to sleep. I think it's just the wind."

"I think it's an angel."

"Maybe, honey. Maybe it's an angel. But you need to sleep now." I kissed her forehead and pulled the covers up over her shoulders.

"Don't be ascared, Daddy. It's a good sound."

Before I could say anything, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

I tiptoed out of her room and back downstairs to our bedroom. Robin breathed rhythmically in the darkness as if she had never sent me out in the night. Annoyed, I climbed back into bed and listened. The sound seemed to compliment perfectly Robin's soft snoring. Hearing my daughter's reassuring words in my head-- "Don't be ascared, Daddy," -- I fell asleep.

But the sound returned the next night. I told the contractors about it and after jokes about ghosts and goblins, they said it would probably go away once the construction was completed, guessing that somewhere a seal was broken that would be tightened, sheet rocked or painted over.

But the sound-we took to calling it the night music-didn't go away. It returned in the stillness of the house and remained until early morning, vanishing with the first sounds of life in the streets outside our home.

I researched the history of our house, half expecting to find a musically gifted child who died mysteriously or a group of traveling gypsies who rented the back room one dark and stormy night. Instead, I found that the Coopersmiths were the original owners--he, an accountant and she a schoolteacher. Their pet poodle stayed in the back room when they had company.

None of the neighbors remembered the Coopersmiths or their poodle playing the cello.

We bought the house from the Pelhams. They lived there for about a year before Mr. Pelham was transferred to Denver. I recall Mrs. Pelham as eager to join her husband. He flew in for the closing and seemed a nice enough gentleman. Neither of them played a musical instrument as far as anyone knew although I was told that Mrs. Pelham had a lovely voice and was a member of the First Baptist Church choir.

I considered investigating further but felt foolish.

We've gotten used to living in a haunted house. In fact, we've learned to enjoy it. Even Tommy, now almost four, asks us to turn on the night music so he can sleep.

© 2004 Wayne Scheer