At 12:15am, I turned off the news, flipped off the side table lamp, and curled up under the sheets in the now very dark bedroom.
It couldn’t have been but a minute or two when I assuredly, distinctively heard something loud coming from downstairs. This wasn’t unusual. I strained to hear. It sounded like it might have been a cry from one of the birds. Except they don’t make a peep in the dark, and I’d never heard something like this coming from them before.
So naturally, I poked to my right, woke up my guard man, and the both of us armed ourselves with the weapons we’ve come to rely on: two golf clubs. He insisted I had left the TV on; I assured him I’ve never left the TV on downstairs.
I didn’t bother to dress up or put my spectacles on. If I’m facing the end; I don’t want to see it and I don’t care what they see.
We swung the bedroom door open. What rose up the staircase to meet us was an eerie audio overload. We looked blankly at one another. He trucked down the stairs.
I didn’t have to move anywhere to hear the blasting Spanish music. It echoed throughout the whole house. In Spanish. At 12:15 in the morning. Cinco de Mayo at Pappasitos was happening in our home.
It wasn’t coming from the TV. It was coming from the clock radio in the office, a clock that has been plugged in but unused since our move almost a year ago. Surely our killer was baiting us down the stairs, only to light us on fire with a tequila-gasoline concoction and stab us with some chips and queso.
But our Spanish ghost was nowhere to be found. We unplugged the la radio (now deemed schizophrenic) and retreated upstairs with our weaponry.
I stand by the fact that there is nothing more frightening than loud music in your home, at random, in a foreign language.