Historical April 1988 report or notice. Original dates, prices and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
At first he thought it was just a harmless tapping, probably caused by a bird on the roof or a rodent in the basement.
On the second or third night though, he began to think he was hearing a pattern in the tapping.
It wasn’t random “click, click, click” any longer.
Now he could swear he was hearing a series of taps, some separated by a few seconds and others running together with no interval in between.
Since his house stood alone in the middle of a field, he knew that it was not kids or any other person making the noise.
He hadn’t seen anyone for weeks now, since the last time he went to town to buy the food that he couldn’t grow and to pick up the mail.
He had moved here three, maybe four, months ago to get away from all the people who didn’t understand, the people who made noise and looked at him with those questioning stares.
He was glad for the quiet and solitude.
He didn’t even own a radio or a television or have a telephone.
His only contact with them—the outside world—was a trip every month or so to buy food, and that was the way that he liked it. Ever since Ruth had committed suicide he had no use for people.
They always looked at him as if it had been his fault, as if he had caused it or at least could have stopped it.
Even if they didn’t know him, he knew they were thinking those things. Every day was spent tending the garden to ensure that he’d have enough food to get by. Every night ended with whiskey and painting.
In his teen-age years he had fancied himself a painter and had made a few dollars drawing things for friends.
Once he even painted a picture of Mrs. Roder’s cat and she gave him five dollars. Now, out here on the farm, he painted every night and drank until he fell asleep and was awakened by the morning sun coming through the uncovered windows.
He didn’t really try to paint anything; he had used the same canvas for almost a year and whenever it was fully covered with paint he would scrape it off and begin again.
It was the same with the whiskey; he didn’t drink for the taste, just to empty the flask and start again with a new bottle.
After the fourth night of hearing the tapping, he gathered his courage and went to the basement to wait for the noise. Sure enough, after an hour or so he heard it, a series of clicks, “one-two-three, pause, one-twothree, pause.” Only the noise wasn’t coming from the walls or the roof, it was coming from the floor of the basement. Where Ruthie was buried. Ruthie’s suicide had been a surprise. Sort of. Life had been hard, and he could see why Ruth had made the choice she did.
It was the third marriage for each of them and although they’d only been married for a year, they’d had their share of fights and bitterness.
When she drank, which was most of the time, Ruth always complained that she would be better off dead than married to him.
They were living in an apartment in the city.
It was two rooms, a kitchen and a bedroom on the seventh floor above the bus station.
He hadn’t worked since they had gotten married, other than hauling trash every once in a while. Ruth was a waitress and her salary paid for their apartment and their drinking.
Sometimes she’d bring home leftover food from the restaurant for meals.
He took a drink and remembered that last night.
They had argued about something and Ruth had screamed at him, as she always did, that he was worthless and that she would be better off dead.
She was leaning against the window, still in her waitress uniform.
She said that she wished she was brave enough to jump.
It would be better than what he could give her, she said and spit at him.
He never could remember what happened next, just that he was at the window watching her fall through the air.
She didn’t make a sound or even move until she hit the pavement.
Sometimes he thought she jumped by herself and sometimes he thought he helped her back up her words.
He was never really sure, but it didn’t matter.
He had run away and returned to find the police in the apartment.
There was no question in their minds that it was a suicide, which was fine with him.
He met her mother for the first time at the funeral; he had thought she was an orphan.
It was then that he found out about her farm where he now lived.
The sound of the tapping brought him back from his memories.
He looked at the floor and heard it again, “one-two-three, pause, onetwo-three, pause,” only this time it was louder.
He stood up and emptied his glass on the grave and the sound grew even louder.
His head began to hurt and he started to walk to the spot where she was buried but the noise was so loud that it knocked him backwards.
He fell and began to run up the basement steps.
When he got to the top of the stairs, he closed the kitchen door behind him, but the noise was even louder. “One-two-three, pause, one-two-three, pause.” He had lost control of himself now, and ran from the house, tearing his shirt and cutting his arm.
He was sweating heavily and running back and forth, with no direction, holding his hands over his ears. Wherever he went, the tapping could be heard.
He couldn’t think, he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t rest.
He fell and got up and continued to run. Then he saw the barn with its silo, jutting up from the horizon.
Without knowing why he ran to the silo and began climbing the ladder on its side. Faster and faster he climbed, the tapping beating against his body and pounding in his head.
The ladder was almost one hundred feet tall, and he would climb a few steps and stop to catch his breath and climb again.
Each time he would stop the noise in his head seemed to grow louder.
When he reached the top of the ladder he looked back at the house and saw it moving.
The sweat poured in his eyes and tears began to roll down his face.
With each tap the house seemed to expand and with each pause it seemed to contract. “One-two-three, pause, one-two-three, pause.” He felt his body beginning to expand and contract as well. “Onetwo-three, pause, one-two-three, pause.” Finally he screamed, “Ruthie,” and jumped from the ladder falling silently to the ground.
The tapping stopped and below his house a small smile came to Ruth’s dark and deadened lips.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, April 1988.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1988_04.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
