The hallway floor was done in standard hardwood fashion; long narrow strips of maple or cherry stained and finished in a medium-brown hue. At the top of the hall there is a spot that creaks upon the pressure of a foot. It was at this spot that she had stopped and stared. Rapt on the years of tread-worn finish, dirt pressed into the seams. And she knew if she stepped on that exact place, that it would indeed sound off under her weight.
She reminisced the feet that had pressed down upon that warped strip of hardwood throughout her years. Family, friends and less-liked ones also. All the adults and children, and then children that became adults, and, of course, the pets all passing across this tired spot. Her whole life in this house spanned inside of a few minutes within her head. Or possibly it was 30; she had lost the time again. Her thoughts seemed to wander as of late, which she actually didn’t mind, given what had recently happened. It was well that she could lose her focus from it, if at least for just a short amount of time.
The clocks banged out a late hour. Darkness, along with the night’s chill, seeped into the house through the panes of 34-year-old windows. She reached up and flipped the switch to light the hallway. Sighing heavily, she started a foot forward, then stopped abruptly. Bumps formed on her arms, and her eyes widened as her neck hairs rose.
What was that?
She forced her ears to open fully. Her right foot hanging precariously inches above the creaking spot.
What was that?
There was a sound ever so faint from one of the bedrooms at the end of the hall, the last one on the right; thebedroom. She strained to hear, keeping her foot elevated as not to press upon the spot. Whatever made that noise would be alerted to her presence if she stepped down. A burglar, perhaps? Or some other type of cretin ready to take advantage of a lonely old woman in a lonely old house; so she waited.
Many thoughts and scenarios played out in her mind … but then … she realized she could not recall the time. Strange, because the clocks had just announced it, but she couldn’t remember how far back that was. How long had she been standing here looking at the floor listening for the noise?
Her foot started to tremble. She withdrew it slightly just as the sound leapt into her right ear, startling her again. She peered into the deep shadows created by the dimly lit hallway. That sound. She knew that sound. It was like air rushing out through a narrow pipe. As if something heavy was placed upon a person already laboring under the effort of drawing air.
Then she smiled a bit at the thought, forcefully rolled her eyes at her own doubt, because she was alone in this house. No one could have gotten in here. She was alone inside just as the dark and cold were trapped outside. But her smile, nonetheless, now sat frozen on her face in wonder. She had heard the noise, hadn’t she? She had stopped herself from depressing the spot on the hardwood floor specifically because of the noise down the hall, right?
What was that she had heard?
As she contemplated these things, her eyes drifted back down to her feet, and what she saw there was a perplexing dilemma in the fact that her right foot was now placed firmly on the floor precisely where the wood was worn. Trying to re-trace her minimal past movements, she could not fathom how or why her foot was placed where it was now.
If she raised her foot, the releasing pressure would surely make the wood sound off from her retreating weight. So, she could not do that and allow the noise from the bedroom, if it actually existed, to know she was in close proximity. But she could not stay frozen here either. She needed to locate some kind of weapon.
She tried to think of what could be the closest perceivable weapon with which to defend herself. The kitchen, of course, had knives, but that’s too far. Ah! The bookcase built into the wall immediately behind and to her right held collectible soda bottles. But she would have to remove her foot to reach for one. The noise in the bedroom would surely be alerted and plan a devious act, but at least she would be armed.
As she pulled up her foot, turned and grabbed a bottle, the floor creaked. But it did not creak as she would have thought. It creaked in an odd noise. Instead of the sound of wood pulling up from a rusted nail, the hardwood made the sound of a sigh, a weak moan, of air being released from a tired lung, as if a machine had just been shut down because it was no longer necessary. It sounded just as the noise down the hall did minutes before. Or was it hours? A chirping from outside stole her away.
Her focus once again returned, and she remembered it all. She gently replaced the bottle back on the bookshelf with the others her husband had collected. Sighing heavily now in the present, she glanced back down the hallway to their bedroom. The room where the last long exhale of air had taken place and a rented medical machine was unplugged. Her eyes traced from the door back down to her feet, looking at the creaking spot.
She looked up from the floor to the living room window that shown pale early morning light filtering in through a threadbare curtain. She looked at her feet trying to recall just how long she had been standing there. Then she looked down the dimly lit hall to the last bedroom door on the right. Where no one had sighed, nor moaned, nor slept, to wake this morning and walk down her hallway to make the narrow hardwood floor creak.
Eric Sharp
Louisville