Night Music

Night Music

It was just after construction began on our house that we discovered our new home was haunted. 

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.

Although our house is made of brick and mortar and is as real as a baby's cry, I'm convinced it also exists in a supernatural world.

We hear music, beautiful music. It's taken us a while to accept the soulful cry 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 tornado-activity of two young children has settled and the TV is silenced, once the telephone no longer threatens to break the calm and our family sleeps peacefully, the music 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 1950s knotty-pine paneled walls and replace it with an airy, window-filled 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 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 bow 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 appeared closed tight. The noise didn't seem to be coming from downstairs. 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.  And the other-worldly hum.

I opened the door to Tommy's room, careful not to wake him. I could hear the cello-like strain in the distance but it wasn't coming from his room. Deep in sleep, I could see his little eyelids twitch, a slight smile on his face.

I entered Beth's room. It was all pink and frilly with stuffed animals everywhere. We overdid it, I know, but Beth liked it. The sound was audible, but definitely not coming from her room. I tried tiptoeing out, but she woke. She had always been a light sleeper.

"Daddy, do you hear it?"  

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

"I think it's a angel. Or a ghost."

"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. Even if it's a ghost, it's a good ghost.”

Before I could say anything, she closed her eyes and returned to a peaceful sleep.

Still hearing the sound, I eased down the stairs and opened the front door. Birds and crickets sang their nightly melodies, but no cello hum. As soon as I reentered the house, I heard it once again.

I tiptoed back to our bedroom. Robin snored rhythmically in the darkness, as if she had never sent me out in the night. Annoyed, I climbed back into bed and listened, as the sound seemed to compliment Robin's soft snore. Hearing my daughter's reassuring words in my head-- "Don't be ascared, Daddy, even if it's a ghost, it's a good ghost"-- I fell asleep.  

When I woke in the morning, the sound was gone.

But it returned the next night and, once again, I made sure windows and doors were shut tight. I admit I felt silly, but I even grabbed a flashlight and checked closets and behind shower curtains. I refrained from looking under the beds. 

I told the contractors about it and after jokes about ghosts and goblins, they said it would probably go away once they completed the construction, guessing that somewhere a seal was broken that would be tightened, sheet rocked or painted over. It sounded reasonable enough, although why only at night?

“Of course,” one of them added,” the house could be haunted.”  

We all laughed.

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

I asked neighbors about the history of our house, half expecting to find a musically gifted child who had died mysteriously or that a group of traveling gypsies had rented the back room one dark and stormy night. Instead, I discovered 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.

When we bought the house, the Pelhams had lived there for about a year before he was transferred to Denver. Mrs. Pelham was 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 called the Pelhams a few months after construction was completed and the sound remained. After small talk and assurance of how much we loved our new home, I asked them if they ever heard any strange noises in the house after dark.

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then Mr. Pelham asked, “Do you mean like a ghost?”

“Well, yes,” I said.

“Of course not.” 

We all laughed and I assured them it was nothing.

I considered investigating further but felt foolish.  

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