⏱ ~4 min reading
At night, Mark's house became completely different. During the day, it was ordinary, with carpets, photographs, and the smell of his mother's pancakes. And at night, it was full of noises. The same noises that don't scare anyone during the day, but when the lights are turned off, they start to seem like something completely, completely alien.
Mark was seven years old, and he should have been sleeping on his own long ago. But how could he fall asleep when something was about to creak under the bed? How could he fall asleep when the pipes in the walls were gurgling, as if someone big was swallowing water? How could he fall asleep when the wind touched the shutter and it responded with a short “crack”?
Every evening, Marco would pull the blanket up to his nose and freeze. He would count the noises. The first was the refrigerator, which would suddenly start humming. The second was something small behind the cupboard, probably a mouse. The third was the wooden stairs, which would groan out of nowhere, as if someone invisible had just stepped on the step. This third noise would always make Marco close his eyes and whisper: “It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing.”.
One evening, his father came in with a cup of warm milk and sat down next to him.
“Why aren’t you sleeping, son?” he asked quietly.
Marco was silent for a long time. And then he confessed:
"Dad, I think our house doesn't love me. It creaks and makes noise at night. And the stairs. And the pipes. And something in the wall is knocking.".
Dad put the cup on the bedside table, and he lay down next to Mark, on top of the blanket, and put his hand under his head.
"Let's listen together," he said. "Just listen carefully. Like musicians.".
They fell silent. At first it was quiet in the darkness of the room. And then it began. Somewhere in the distance — “bulk-bulk” — a pipe. Then — a short “shadow” — it was a refrigerator. Somewhere in the roof — “shu-shu-shu,” as if someone was turning the pages of a book.
"Do you hear that gurgling?" Dad whispered. "That's our water rushing to the kitchen faucet. It's always a little late, and that's why it gurgles like it's running.".
Marco imagined a small drop running down a pipe, stumbling and laughing. He felt funny.
— And this sound, is it “crack”?
"It's the stairs that sigh," Dad explained. "During the day, you, Mom, me, and even the cat have walked up them so many times. And at night, they remember all those steps. And they sigh because they feel a little lonely without us.".
— And "shu-shu-shu" on the roof?
"It's leaves. They fell near the chimney and now they're rustling in the wind. It's like someone's singing a lullaby very, very softly.".
Marco began to listen in a new way. And suddenly he realized: all these sounds are not scary. They are familiar. They are their home. Just as he himself has a voice, the house also has a voice. Only the house speaks slowly, and each of its words is long.
“And the mouse behind the closet?” he asked.
"Not a mouse," Dad smiled. "That's your old toy car, the wheels of which catch on the wallpaper when there's a draft on the floor. We'll move it tomorrow, okay?"
Marco nodded. He lay there listening. The refrigerator sang its “mmm”. The clock ticked somewhere in the far room. The wind lightly touched the shutters – “crack” – and immediately apologized with a rustle of leaves.
It was a whole song. A big, slow night song of the house.
"Dad," Marco whispered, "I thought he didn't love me.".
"What are you doing, son?" his father kissed him on the forehead. "The house on the other side is protecting you. It's making noise because it's alive. If it were silent, that would be strange.".
That night, Marco fell asleep earlier than usual. And he dreamed that he and the house were singing together—he hummed, and the house sang along with its pipes, stairs, and leaves on the roof.
From that evening on, Marco was no longer afraid of night sounds. He even learned to recognize them. Sometimes, lying in the dark, he would close his eyes and think: “Now the refrigerator will sing. Now the stairs will sigh. Now the wind will say “crack.””.
And he almost always guessed. Because their house sang the same lullaby. The lullaby that all good houses sing to their little inhabitants.
✨ If you listen carefully, even scary sounds turn out to be familiar voices from home ✨