The Haunted

It was after noon, and Julian was getting hungry. So he took a break and went downstairs to make himself a sandwich. Once again, the house seemed too quiet, and he turned on the television in the living room, switching the channel to CNN and boosting the volume so he could hear it in the kitchen. He’d intended to eat at the breakfast table, the way he usually did, but the closed door of the basement was in his peripheral vision, and he felt more comfortable going into the dining room. He could see the TV here as well, and watching opposing pundits, framed by red, white and blue graphics as they discussed the president’s current approval ratings, made him feel relaxed and reassured.

Biting into his sandwich, Julian pondered what his next move should be. He thought he might—

A knock on the dining room window made him jump.

Looking up, he saw a man with a knife standing in the side yard and peering into the house.

Julian jerked back from his chair as though he’d been sitting on hot coals. The man staring in at him was dressed in torn jeans and a faded Willie Nelson T-shirt, wearing a yellow baseball cap with the brim anachronistically pointed in the wrong direction. He was frowning, and under his furrowed brow, his eyes were darting back and forth, taking in everything. The long knife in his hand glinted in the midday sun.

The windows were all closed to keep the coolness in, luckily, and Julian ran to the kitchen door to make sure it was locked, then ran to the front door to do the same. He grabbed the phone to call 911.

The crazy man was still at the window. The look on his face was one of dumb fascination, like Frankenstein watching a domestic scene that he didn’t understand, but at least he wasn’t trying to break into the house.

“I’m calling the police!” Julian announced loudly, and just at that moment, a dispatcher came on the line. Julian quickly gave his name and address, and before the woman could ask what was wrong, he told her that there was a lunatic with a knife standing in his yard and spying on him through a window. The dispatcher asked him to stay on the line, but Julian ignored her. He put the phone faceup on a table so she could hear what was going on, then ran back into the kitchen, where he opened the knife drawer, trying to find his own weapon, just in case. None of their knives were big enough to ensure victory in a fight, however, and he changed his mind, hurrying over to the broom closet, where he took out both a broom and a mop. Each of them had a long handle, and while he doubted that either of them would be able to deal any lethal blows, he could use them to bat the knife out of the man’s hand, hit his head or even spear into his stomach.

Broom in his left hand, mop in his right, both of them held backward, sticks out, he hurried back into the dining room, where the man was—

Gone!

No. He had merely moved over to the other pane. He was still standing at the window. “Let me in!” he called, and his voice was neither as demanding as the request would seem to require nor as flat as the expression on his face would indicate. Indeed, the voice did not seem to match the person, and that dichotomy made the situation seem even more threatening and unnerving.

Julian remained in place, both makeshift weapons held tight.

The police arrived moments later. They came in two cars, sirens wailing, tires screeching, but nothing scared the man off. He was still there when Julian ran out the front door to meet the officers and tell them where the intruder was, and although the man did not run away, he also did not comply when a policeman, gun drawn, ordered him to drop the knife. He was still holding the weapon and staring in the window as he was subdued and the knife taken from him.

Julian had never had a reason to call the police before, and his preconceptions came entirely from movies and television shows. Although he’d expected either arrogance or hostility, he encountered neither, and he was impressed by not only the officers’ levelheaded competence but the experienced efficiency with which they handled the situation.

The intruder, who refused to give his name, was handcuffed, arrested and driven away by two of the officers, while two others remained behind to take Julian’s statement.

“How long is he going to stay in jail?” Julian asked. “You’re not just going to book him and then let him out on bail, are you? Because I’m afraid he’d come right back here. And if my wife and kids were home …” He left the thought unfinished.

“He was captured during the commission of a crime,” said the lead officer, George Rodriguez, a stocky young man with a thick black mustache. “So no, that’s not going to happen. He might get bail, but by the looks of him, I doubt if he could make it. He also seems more than a little disturbed, so we’re going to recommend a psych evaluation, which will keep him locked up for a minimum of seventy-two hours.”

“Seventy-two hours? That’s all? And after that … ?”