Morse Code

Rain taps staccato on windowpanes and rooftops, a hundred thousand Morse code messages falling unheeded against the night. The houses on Trumbull Lane stand like silent sentinels, protecting their inhabitants from what may be creeping in the shadows. Somewhere in the expanse of spruce and firs an owl cries out inquisitively, but there is no response. On nights like these, there never is.

Trumbull Lane is a dead end. The road widens and forms a circle at it's culmination to allow wayward cars a place to turn around. At the crest of the circle stands a mailbox denoting 22 Trumbull Lane and the name Gerald Perkins.

Gerald Perkins is, among many things, an insomniac.

The amber glow of a cigarette brightens and flares as Perkins inhales, standing motionlessly on his front porch. Rain trickles down through the holes and gaps in the roof. The beams and supports of the entire house are swollen with moisture. It's been raining for two days, and the interior walls are weeping. Down to the filter now, Perkins plucks the cigarette from his mouth and tosses it into a rusted coffee can filled with rainwater.

“I'm going crazy,” he says aloud. It's the first time in days that he's heard another human voice, and even though it is his, he jumps at how foreign it sounds. He closes his eyes and tries to relax.

He opens his eyes suddenly and cocks his head. He hears something. A heavy tapping, drumming, banging sound. He turns around and opens the door to enter his house and investigate, and the smell hits him like a wall. The instant reflex to vomit stops almost before it begins as something shifts in Gerald's mind.

Gerald Perkins is schizophrenic.

To his altered state, the oppressive smell of decomposition and wet rot are favored fragrances. He walks inside, closing the door behind him with effort. A trio of guttering candles offer dim light for the room, casting dancing shadows of him on the walls. He rubs his hands greedily together and walks toward the sound.

The sound is the loudest at the door that leads down to the dirt basement.

Gerald opens the door, and a flurry of mice burst out from the yawning darkness. They flee to drier places in the crumbling house, and as the sound of their scampering feet fade, Gerald notices that the tapping sound had stopped.

“Hello?” a female voice cries out. There's the sound of splashing water. The basement must be flooded. “Gerald, is that you?”

He steps heavily down onto the first stair. “Gerald's gone, precious. It's just you... and me.”

“Please, no!” she screams. “Don't hurt me anymore, I can't take it! I just-”

The stairs groan under his weight as he descends into the dark. The woman's screams are stifled as the door closes behind him.

The owl sounds out again, always asking, but on nights like these with no witnesses, there is no one to answer.

-- written by Badass Geek