Austin Price, Editor in Chief
Sound. It engulfs us. It overwhelms us. It excites us. It terrifies us.
Hearing. A sense we have. A sense we experience. A sense that can be euphoric. A sense that can be torturous.
Our ability to hear sound, a gift we are given upon joining the Earth, is both a blessing and a curse. We enjoy the perception of noise. The elongated waves of reverberation. The distant resonations of whispers in the dark.
Like secrets shared at a sleepover, we digest the sounds of words, slithering off our tongues, and relish the hot air that touches our flesh, while we receive this sacred information.
The same as many other things, sound can manifest differently. It can be soothing. It can be abrasive. The translation of vibrations into intricate, technicolor stories, all of which can produce varying interpretations.
Some sounds we crave. Like the sound of an innocent child’s laughter, as they encounter the world before them, without the bruising of reality pummeling their complexion.
Some sounds we dread. Like the screams of an inhuman killer. Their sadistic screeching, covering the pain of their prey.
Some sounds we ignore. Like the background clamor of the TV, as commercials break up our preferred, comfort content.
Some sounds we unconsciously acknowledge. Like the irritating, disturbing plop of water, dripping down from a leaky pipe into a large bucket.
Despite the physiological hassle of these copious sounds, we accept their existence. Why?
Because all the sounds above are things we can see. Things that can be recognized by our other senses. Maybe we see them, maybe we smell them, maybe we even touch them. Regardless, there is more than one sense activated by these sounds, ensuring our sanity and encouraging further curiosity.
But what about the sounds that we can’t identify? The sounds that have seemingly no correlation with actions. The sounds that are not produced by visible objects. The sounds that are abstract from our distinguished reality. How do we explain those?
Some things cannot be explained. Some sounds cannot be interpreted. Some noises cannot be replicated. Some experiences cannot be proven.
But what if I told you there was a way to prove these unusual circumstances are apparent to me? Would you believe me?
Unoiled hinges, rusted metal, brittle materials.
The squeaky screen door serves as an extra barrier between the haven of a home, and the wickedness of the wild.
It’s strategically positioned to help prevent unwanted visitors from the outside. Insects, rodents, and other small, unfavorable travelers.
The door serves multiple facets. It personifies the function of other, more elegant household appliances. It acts as a ventilator, welcoming fresh air through its woven squares of mesh, vinyl overlapping vinyl. It provides the benefit of a window. A view to the predators of the world, with a protective lace draped in front of potential prey.
This squeaky screen door acts as a mediator between the inside and the out. It provides a sense of serenity and neutrality amongst opposing forces, the delightful, and the deadly.
As time passes, and as things age, changes are made. Parents grow older, children grow wiser. Updates are made, and revisions are emboldened.
Despite the natural time travel and unavoidable aging of those we love, the squeaky screen door remains the same. It still squeaks upon opening and closing. Its vinyl mesh still stretches taut across the frame, albeit with more scuff marks than before. The spider web of overlying material still lets the outside world peek through, but with more ferocity than before, because of the black substance fading to gray from the strain of constant sunlight.
The squeaky screen door is a witness to the actions within the home. It watches the parents sit on the couch. Sipping red wine from sleek glasses after a long day at work.
It watches the children argue as they roughhouse on the floor, an attack completed with hair pulling and constant teasing.
It watches the grandparents, when they come to visit, as they sit with hands folded, critiquing the mother’s decorative style.
It has watched the highs and the lows of the family.
It has served as a witness to great victories, such as when the children proudly showed artwork they made at school, as intentional gifts and keepsakes for their parents to display for years to come.
It has watched the joy spread across children’s faces when a new family member is introduced. A golden retriever puppy with floppy ears, silky fur, and high-pitched yelps, waiting to turn into echoing barks of warning.
It has watched the parents enjoy a night away from the kids. Two lovers holding one another, gently swaying to silent sounds of music in the family room.
It has served as a witness to the great moments, the cherished memories, and the irreplaceable encounters of the family.
With such a catalog of joyous entertainment, the squeaky screen door patiently observes. It waits for the inevitable moment of a tainted sound, of a sneaky shadow, of an unsettling interaction that the family is not prepared for.
While a menagerie of happiness and excitement normally perform for the screen door, one night, the unexpected occurs and the act is changed.
The night began like it always does, the soft shades of dusk permeating the room with a haze of sleepiness settling into the home. Suddenly, the mother and father, once tender lovers, come storming in. The man shouts at his wife, venomous anger seeping into a menagerie of cruel verbiage. Meanwhile, the woman cowers beneath her husband. The man that once vowed to protect her, strikes her with the hand that bears his wedding ring. Oblivious to her cries, the man continues his attack on the woman, eventually leaving her abandoned on the floor, with bruises blossoming over her bodice. Purple and blue splotches that require a masquerade of makeup to conceal.
The woman collects herself, picking her broken body off of the floor and straightening out her now wrinkled clothes.
As all women do, she composes herself after facing extreme cruelty, prepared to proceed with her evening as usual. Like nothing is wrong, like nothing ever happened.
As she stands, the woman hears the signature sound of the squeaky screen door. She looks up, nervous that her former protector is back to continue his punishment. However, when her eyes look up from under her tangled hair, nothing is there.
The squeaky screen door has not moved. The latch is still fastened, the lock is still in place, and the door is still completely shut, despite the verbal cue of opening it produced before.
The battered woman walks closer to the door, trying to convince herself that she is hearing things. Hearing things she cannot see.
She has nearly reached resolution from the abnormal experience when she approaches the door and rests her hand on screen. She drags her hand across the scratchy material, letting the familiar coolness of the door comfort her aching body, when suddenly, her hand falls through the door.
The woman looks up and sees that her hand has pushed through the screen door entirely. She jerks away quickly, shaking her hand out and bringing it into her chest.
Upon the extraction of her hand, she examines the door. Her eyes graze over the zig-zagged mesh and parades consistent stitching, until the place her hand went through the durable material. The hole in the mesh matched the shape of her fist perfectly.
Despite this unexplainable event, the woman’s curiosity quickly permeates fear. Fear that her husband will enter, and the unintentional damage she has done. Fear that she will once again meet the brutality of his fist, and the volatility of his temper.
Quickly and efficiently, the woman grabs her sewing kit and stitches the screen door back together with thin black thread. Her swollen fingers collide with one another, in her haste to repair the door, before her husband sees. As she finishes tying the knot, she hears her husband entering from the kitchen. She grabs her items and goes to hide in the bathroom before he can see her kneeling before the damaged door.
Her husband storms in, one hand on his hip, the other holding his cigarette. The stench of nicotine threatens to overwhelm the senses, by coating the room with its fumes. However, the squeaky screen door ventilates the smoke, leaving the room smelling as dry and painful as before.
After a few more puffs, the man opens the door, automatically wincing at the door’s signature squeak, and throws his cigarette outside, putting it out with the toe of his work boot. He stands outside for a moment, looking at the backyard of the home he and his wife, now his victim, have built together. With a long sigh and the shake of his head, he turns back to the doorway ready for it to engulf him in the safety of the house.
As he turns around and steps forward, he bumps into the screen door head on. The door is closed. The man pushes his face into the mesh, trying to see the culprit. Trying to see the one who shut him outside. His eyes scan the empty room, and he comes to a quiet resolve that he must’ve shut the door behind him and simply forgot.
As the man steps back, and prepares to enter the house successfully, he notices a circular burn in the mesh. The shape and size of a cigarette burn, this dark hole ominously settles right where the man’s chest pushed into the door when he initially tried to enter.
The man grazes his fingers across the mesh, and drags his hand across the scratchy material, letting the familiar coolness of the door comfort his aching heart. When he pinpoints the spot of the burn, he lets his fingers linger on the ashy splotch. A silent moment of reflection, shame, and pity settles over the man as he pulls his grimy finger away from the burn, opens the door, and heads inside.
Later that night, as the former lovers lay on opposite sides of the bed, backs to one another, the eldest child, the only daughter, slips down the stairs. With hair pulled back, high heels on, and keys and phone in hand, the daughter prepares to make her daring escape, sneaking out without her parents' permission.
Moving intently and silently, the girl goes to the screen door, ready to make her exit without triggering the motion sensored lights in the front of the house by avoiding the main entrance.
The girl prepares to open the screen door, while applying pressure upwards on the door, to lessen the volume of squeakiness she knows is inevitable. Despite this obstacle, the girl is not worried about getting caught. Both her parents are asleep, and their golden retriever puppy, now a deaf old dog, will not hear her leave, he hasn't before.
The girl begins to lift and push the door, when suddenly, a blood curdling shriek emits from the door. She jumps back away from the door, as if it has a disease and looks around to see if she has awoken the house.
Upon assessing her surroundings, the girl turns back to try and open the door again. As she does, she feels a weight on her right foot. She peeks down to see the old golden retriever, sitting on her leg, preventing her from leaving. Apparently, this deaf old dog can still learn some new tricks and could hear her attempted escape.
Accepting defeat, and realizing she won’t be going out tonight, the girl looks down at the dog and pats his head. The dog, content with his victory in keeping his human safe from the sinister world, pants and looks up at his owner with unwavering loyalty and ultimate adoration.
Resolving to head back to bed, the girl begins to turn back into the house, and walk upstairs, back to bed. The dog follows her. Tail swishing with content. As she reaches the staircase, the girl is startled by another shriek from the squeaky screen door.
She whips her head around to the door, expecting to see an intruder. However, nothing is there.
The girl scrambles for her phone, and clicks on the flashlight app, shining it at the screen door. Once again, no one was there. However, upon closer inspection, the girl notices claw marks through the mesh. Deep, thick scratches mutilate the mesh and disfigure the fabric against the tight frame.
These marks are too big, and too deep to be from a human. They’re too long and too jagged to be from a machine.
Keeping her flashlight on the screen’s scratches, the girl walks closer to the door, once again, with her faithful pup padding behind her. As she reaches the door, she places her hand on the marks, and drags her hand across the scratchy material, letting the familiar coolness of the door comfort her aching soul.
As her fingers trace the edges of the scratch marks, the dog erupts with a low growl, rumbling deep in his throat. The girl flings her hand away and looks at the dog, whose eyes are boring into the scratched screen door. The girl stands up, links her fingers under the dog's collar, and leads him up the stairs to her bedroom.
The next morning, as the different family members traipse down the stairs, all of them stop and take a long look at the screen door. There is no hole in the shape of a fist, with no handmade stitching repairing it. There is no smudge of ash or sign of a cigarette burn in the center. There are no long scratches, or frayed edges at the ends. The squeaky screen door stands untouched, with all marks of pain completely erased.
The last member of the family, the youngest son, was the only one protected from the ear-piercing sounds of the squeaky screen door. He trots through the living room, excited to run outside and play. The rest of his family observes his innocence and longs to have the same pure joy in life as he does.
Their jealousy and wonder grow even more when the boy opens the squeaky screen door and runs outside. All while in complete silence.