The Voice Upstairs

Miranda pulled the pillow over her head but was unable to block the voice assaulting her ears.

Every night.

Someone upstairs.

She wasn’t sure how much more she could tolerate.

After a few minutes, the noise faded and then stopped altogether.. Peace and quiet at last.

Miranda is getting on in years. The years slipped past without leaving much of a trace behind to distinguish one from another. She spent most of her time in her rocking chair watching endless reruns of Lawrence Welk.

  

One night, Miranda decided to ask whoever lived there to please be quiet because she couldn’t sleep.

She swung her lumpy, blue-veined legs over the edge of the bed, slid her gnarled feet into her slippers, pulled on her robe, grabbed her cane and slowly thumped her way up the stairs.

She knocked.

But after several moments, there was no answer, so she thumped to her room and climbed back into bed.

After the situation became intolerable, she decided to speak to the owner of the house. She had tried to be a good neighbor, but her efforts failed. It was time for someone with authority to take care of the situation.

“Mom no one lives above you! Other than us, you are the only person here. That room is empty, other than a few things we have stored there. I kept losing the key, so it’s not even locked anymore.

But how could there be nobody when she could hear them every night?

It made no sense. Why would they lie about it?

Finally, after yet another sleepless night, and certain her instincts were right, she once again made her way up the stairs and this time, slowly opened the door.

The room was dark.

She felt along the wall for a light switch.

A bare light in the center of the ceiling flashed on. After her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, her eyes focused and she saw an old woman sitting in a rocking chair in the far corner. Still at first. Then slowly she began to rock, ever so slightly.

Overcoming her fear, Miranda took a few steps further into the room until she was close enough to see the old woman.

“Hello, Miranda.”

It took a moment for the recognition to dawn on her and then she gasped as she stared at the image of herself.

“You really should listen to me when I tell you things, you know. Why do you ignore me and pretend I’m someone else?

“It’s been me all along. Or, rather, it’s been YOU all along. Your words. Your thoughts.

“Now, go back to your room; you’re not as young as you used to be, remember. Be careful! You don’t want to fall down again.”

Her family grieved and carried on after Miranda's passing a year later. 

Then one night, her daughter awoke and shook her husband awake. "Can you hear that?? It sounds like someone talking."

But Miranda's room was empty and the rocking chair had been stored in the attic.