by James Norris

The wind is blowing again, as it has every night since I moved here.  Tonight’s different though–there’s an expectation.  Not in the voices, but in me.

Somehow, I know it’s happening tonight.

I anxiously try to drown them out.  I play the stereo as loud as it will go.  I vacuum.  Run the dishwasher.  The washing machine.

But they drop in pitch, so low they cause the whole house to vibrate.

It’s too much–like it’s the house talking, possessed by the voices.

I turn everything off.

They return to normal–high-pitched, coming in snatches, just out of synch with the howling wind.


After a few weeks in this house, I’d hear the voices and glimpse shapes blowing past the windows so fast I couldn’t recognize them.

Blown by the wind.


I told myself they were common things:  pieces of newspaper, bags, leaves.  But I never found them trapped in the fence the next morning.

Later, I realized the voices were putting words with the shapes.


When I was young, I used to dream I was out in a strong wind.  Raising my arms, the wind would lift me off the ground.  The higher I lifted my arms, the faster I would rise.  I could fly.

But I always flew too high.  Always lost control.

Shortly after moving here, I had the dream again, and tonight the voices are making it come true.

I’m being changed.


Tonight I will.

In the dream, I always lose control.