A woman knows the sound of her house. A house built by her husband, and lived in for the past 25 years. The metallic clang, when trod upon, of the ductwork too close to the floorboards at the juncture of the kitchen/living room. The squeak of the floorboards under the kitchen linoleum at the end of the counter. The squeal of the opening kitchen door. The pops and cracks and clunks of FRIG II's icemaker.
A woman also knows the sound of something in her house that is not explainable by human standards.
Our house is built on solid rock. We had to blast rock to get our basement. Our phone line runs through a shallow trench to the pole, barely covered by dirt. Even the sinkholes up by the road are not crumbly. They have solid rock sides, having been formed long ago. Our house does not settle. We sit on solid rock. Never even had a basement leak.
When Genius was in his early teens, he and Hick updated the boys bathroom to reflect Genius's like of hockey. It has some memorabilia that Hick gathered from somewhat famous players at assorted tool shows he attended for work. Hick kept the NASCAR stuff for himself, but gave the hockey stuff to Genius. He also found some pieces at auctions. There's a little shadow box thingy that holds the smaller items, like a puck. There's a towel rack made of a hockey stick. They did the floor in shiny whiteboard, with colored tape and stencils marking it like a hockey rink. Then put some kind of sealer on it, that has yellowed a bit with age. That floor is slippery in socks! You might as well be a novice on ice.
Anyhoo... Tuesday night/Wednesday morning, at 12:33 a.m., I was sitting on the short couch, watching a marathon of Chrisley Knows Best. And I heard it.
TWO FOOTSTEPS IN THE BOYS' BATHROOM!
Of course there were no boys living here to enter that bathroom. Hick was asleep in the master bedroom at the other end of the house, with the door closed. NOBODY was walking into that bathroom.
The sound was just like when a person steps in there. Not a clunky tread from shoe soles. Not a creak of the floor. Just the sound of someone stepping on that surface. Like a crackle as the weight is transferred onto the foot. I heard it once. LOUD. Then again. Just as loud.
I DID NOT LOOK THAT WAY!
Would you? I didn't want to see anything in there. I just said out loud,
"Oh no. Let's not do this."
That was it. Only those two steps. I guess now that The Pony has moved most of his beauty product bottles out of the shower and off the sink, there's nothing much to fling around in there. The couple that are left are mostly empty. Not so dramatic to fling.
I'm going to be really upset if that bottle-flinging starts up again, now that I've mentioned it!