Our story begins… with a dull, distant pounding.
But before that, me. Alone.
In the seemingly empty music building, whose doors had just been locked tightly from the outside by one of the campus security guards.
I had traveled there with the intention of getting in some late evening practice (yes, I’m trying to break my chronic Netflix habit). Beethoven in hand, I marched down the stairs toward the lounge, where reside some of the comfiest couches in the land. Beyond this cozy scene, two separate hallways with lights dimmed stretch into the bowels of the basement. There lie the practice rooms–one of which, down the hallway on the right, contains a certain temperamental Steinway I am quite fond of.
It was there, as I contemplated the inadequate lighting of the hallway on the right, that I first heard it.
An irregular, booming thud like that of a deep kettle drum, emanating from somewhere toward the end of the hallway, where a set of precarious stairs leads backstage of the auditorium. I stopped, gaze fixed on the encroaching darkness ahead, and listened.
There it was again. Boom, clank, like the chains of Jacob Marley dragging across the stark tile floor. And again. Each consequent thud reached my ears sooner–and louder–than the last.
I shifted one Birkenstock-clad foot forward, questioning my life decisions.
First of all, why had I chosen Birkenstocks? Those lazy slip-ons are definitely not conducive to running for one’s life.
Secondly, I found myself actually contemplating an investigation of the strange and otherworldly thudding sound. At the end of a dark hallway. While sporting a pair of Birkenstocks.
Did I mention that the ill-lit hallway only got progressively darker as it led on? That the glowing red exit sign at the top of the stairs shone down like the maleficent eyes of a Balrog of Morgoth? That the now-rhythmic thudding seemed to echo my own heart, which had just begun to pound in mild terror?
Did I mention it was dark?
Boom, clank.
Visions of primordial beasts, and Phantoms with acid-scarred faces, and maniacal serial killers ran through my mind. I was definitely not going to investigate. In fact, I was going to leave. Go back home. Probably watch some Netflix.
Just as I reached this conclusion, a tall, dark figure appeared at the end of the hallway. The figure pointed a bright, piercing light in my direction, as two of its fellows crept after it into the darkness. I froze.
Boom.
Clank.
The figures turned toward me, and I hoped with my entire being that those were cell phone flashlights, and that they were people (preferably of the non-maniacal sort).
“Do you hear it too?” one of the figures shouted toward me.
I slumped inwardly with relief. It was a person. A male person. Its comrades were two girls, who laughed nervously, trying to pretend like they hadn’t been as irrationally terrified as I had.
“Yes,” I said, moving forward, toward the very welcome feeling of companionship. If I was going to die, I’d at least have another human there to die with me.
“Oh, good,” said the male person. He was wearing a yellow hoodie. A beacon of hope.
Boom, clank.
All three of them then turned toward the stairs. Looking around at each other, wielding their battery-draining cell phone lights, they began to ascend that treacherous stair with its gleaming red exit sign. I followed, somewhat reluctantly–but now that I had companions, the whole thing seemed more adventurous.
We made it to the top of the stairs, miraculously still alive. The exit sign now appeared to me less evil–made it easier to plan my escape route.
BOOM. CLANK. Yes, we had definitely gotten closer to the source. It seemed to be coming from behind the wall.
“Why am I so scared?” said the shorter of the two girls. She laughed again.
“Because, this is like a horror movie,” said the other one.
“Maybe it’s a cave troll,” I added helpfully. Yellow Hoodie moved to open a side-door of the auditorium.
If this were a horror movie, I would think we were all idiots, I thought. But of course, now my curiosity had been thoroughly piqued. Could it be that some monumental, towering creature, restricted for too long to the tiny space of a nondescript “storage closet,” had finally decided enough was enough? Could it be that, within these aged brick walls, a portal, a channel to some other dimension, had sprung into being? Was this, perhaps, the work of aliens?
BOOM.
CLANK.
More likely it was the plumbing, or something equally as anticlimactic. After all, the music building is not known for its newness.
Now the door was open, revealing the extra-dark, extra-creepy auditorium. Through the gloom, row upon row of empty seats peered at us with cold, unfeeling eyes.
Sticking our heads out the door, we glanced around. Nothing appeared to be out of order.
Except that the thudding continued, unrelenting–Boom, clank–more mysterious now that there was clearly no one on the stage banging things around, like Peeves the poltergeist mischievously trying to scare some college kids.
I was now distinctly fascinated–and unnerved. My coincidental comrades were just as dumbfounded.
“I’m thinking we go back now,” I said, and they all agreed heartily. We returned (me somewhat disappointed) to the lounge, whereupon Yellow Hoodie called a security guy to come check out the building.
Sure enough, as soon as Security Guy arrived, the thudding began to tone itself down. He was, needless to say, not impressed. Armed with a mess of keys, he went off to investigate. For a few minutes we speculated as to whether or not he would survive if this were a real horror movie. The general consensus was that he would not.
Later on, Security Guy returned the lounge, where I sat unaffectedly checking messages on my electronic device. He informed us that it had just been the thousand-year-old boiler kicking on and rattling some pipes.
The news was mildly deflating. I mean, obviously I was glad that there was no threat of pipe explosion, nor psycho serial killer, nor Balrog. The fact that Security Guy made it back alive was indeed a comfort.
But sometimes, I rather prefer to believe in the improbable.
