Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26295254-20150409212907

Ever since I was younger, I’ve been—let’s say, sensitive to loud noises. The wail of an ambulance as it charges down the street like a freight train chugging screams as fuel, or the brooding clap of thunder outside my bedroom window. My friends would make fun of me, of course, but I saw no reason to be ashamed.

Either way, it didn’t exactly make growing up with an obnoxious twin brother who thought he had plumbed the very depths of comedy gold by concealing himself behind the kitchen door and leaping out whenever I came in for a midday snack. Years of his jack-in-a-box behaviour would make anyone shift in their seat whenever a jackhammer set off outside.

That actually brings me nicely to why exactly I’m writing my story. You see, any loud noises bothered me, but what really got to me was all the construction work that went on outside my house. I could feel every gash torn into the front garden, every hiss of a water pipe, and no matter how hard I pressed the base of my palms to my ears it couldn’t numb the sound. But—I’m not here to bluster like an idiot about each and every time I was exposed to that torture.

Just one of them, the most recent. It’s still fresh in my mind, so I thought it best to write it all down, just a general idea of what was going on. Maybe I’ll fix it up later, if I have the time.

A knock sounded, if you could call it that. Three heavy slams, like someone had slowly shoved at it with the palm of their hand. I winced, hauled myself from the sofa and opened the front door, fully expecting to see some kind of Neanderthal in a fluorescent vest on his back and a clipboard in hand. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Standing there, chewing idly on a wad of gum, was the most disgusting man I had ever seen. I had to do a double-take. He was skinny and gaunt, his hair was a tangled, filthy mess that collected along his shoulders. I spotted the yellow smoker’s tint on his fingertips, and his breath was a putrid mixture of stale cigarettes and booze. The gravelly voice was indefinitely rougher around the edges than any other I’d heard in this neighbourhood, but I grit my teeth and tried being less judgemental of the poor guy.

He piped up gruffly, snapping me out of my observant trance. “Oi, mate. Just a quick check-up, yeah? Hopefully nothin’ too nasty, but diggin’ it all up might take a day or two. Just sign here.” He passed me a cracked biro and I scrawled my signature down in a stunned silence. I didn’t get a really good look at the papers, but at a glance they didn’t exactly look as professional as what I’d previously seen. I assumed there was some sort of design change and it didn’t particularly faze me, what did was his demeanour. He spoke like we were friends, or something, and I’d never in my life seen a member of the grid with such an attitude. He sneered at me, glancing up and down for a second before he turned just in time for an unmarked white van to trundle down the street, presumably dropping off power tools. I closed the door just late enough to see him spit into the grass.

I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I was pretty suspicious. I’m not a complete idiot. But to tell the truth he scared me, not enough to phone the police but certainly enough to make me keep an eye out. Everything SEEMED normal. I saw him remove a clean shovel from the back of the van, a strong of fencing to mark off the area, and—a jackhammer. Maybe I should have mentioned this previously, but jackhammers probably startled me the most. The rumbling pierced through my ears, every time I thought it was over and I had removed my hands from my ears, it hit me again.

They didn’t exactly start working for about half an hour. I’m no expert, but how long does it take to dig a hole to a pipe? But when the hammer first struck the ground, it hurt me badly. That rumbling felt like it was making my bones shake, I felt cold sweats over my body. I dashed into the living room and hurriedly plugged my headset into my laptop, trying to distract myself from the horrendous sound. I held my head in my hands. No use, no use. I barely got a wink of sleep. I only noticed it afterwards, because I was so terrorised by the drone of metal against concrete, but the guy had suspiciously late shifts, and even when he did stop you could see the van in the orange glow of the streetlamp.

I must have drifted off to sleep at some point, because I remember waking up with the noise ringing through my ears. I was groggy, but managed to heave my heavy bones to the bathroom and switch on the shower—and that definitely woke me up. I forgot about what happens when they tinker with the water pipe. A groan, a gurgling sound like a banshee wailing sounded through the showerhead. Just—more noise, it was horrific. I heard spluttering echo through the pipe before it spat water like a broken sprinkler. This was ridiculous, I couldn’t even wash myself in peace. I stormed out immediately after throwing on some fresh clothes, livid, and still haunted by the shattering of concrete and the groans of the drainpipes.

Observing the scene, I picked up on a few more oddities to add to the constantly expanding list—the creepy guy was by himself, there were no other workers that I had seen. The van had no logo, but was dusted with grime and it seemed as if the tyres had been sealed back up multiple times. Not to mention, the place was a tip. Dirt was thrown up haphazardly, fragments of concrete littered the pavement, and the fencing wasn’t even stood up properly. When I peered into the hole they had torn into my garden, there was a gleam of piping beneath a hefty black bag.

At this point I was hell bent on calling the police, but before I took another step, the van doors swung open with a clatter, causing me to jump. He stepped out, as rancid as ever, and gave me a decaying smile. I seized up, turned and bolted back into the house. Call me every name under the sun for acting so childish, but he just gave off such an air of uncomfortableness, the kind of vibe you get when you’re standing on a cliff edge. Vertigo. My stomach churned as I tightly locked the door and let out a shuddering breath. Just one more day.

The soothing thought that the noise would be over soon was definitely comforting, and I even left my bed in high spirits. I peered out from the bedroom window and noted that he had almost finished filling up the hole with soil. Sweet relief. I entered the bathroom, shut the door softly, and turned up the dial. The soft ‘chnk’ of the shovel in the upturned earth was surprisingly pleasing to the ear, and I had a split second of bliss before the ghastly moan sounded from the piping, murmurs and garbled speech oozing from the showerhead and creeping into my mind. I froze on the spot, and my eyes bulged towards the source of the unsettling noises. There was a voice in there. Desperate, croaking whispers of a final breath muffled by a sound overhead.

A soft ‘chnk’ of a shovel in upturned earth.

The noises were from outside. Images of the black body bag filled my head and I ran as fast as my legs could carry me down the stairs. I fumbled with the keys, blurry movement visible through the tiny slit windows. I flung the door open and threw myself onto the path, my stomach knotted in fear. The stench of rot filled my nostrils.

The white van was gone. The tools were gone. Every mound of dirt had been shovelled back into place. I swallowed hard, standing over what was once a gaping hole that led to a broken pipe.

Now it was a grave.'' ''  