The shrieking of the smoke detector painfully filled his eardrums.
Richard’s body jolted with gut-wrenching terror. “Bloody hell!” His body spasmed with shock. Covering his ears, he climbed the first few steps of the stairs so he could reach the noisy device. He unscrewed it, his face scrunched up in repulsion, and then frantically removed the battery, his hands sweaty, trembling.
The noise stopped dead.
He set the plastic device down on one of the steps, and then leaned against the banister, taking a moment to calm down. “Bloody hell,” he repeated, holding a hand to his thumping heart.
Slightly calmer, he started to descend the stairs.
Just as his foot touched the hallway floor, the piercing sound of the smoke detector returned.
He recoiled in fright again. Frowning, he opened his hand to see the battery in his palm. He froze in fear, unable to explain how the device could still be screaming without power. Impossible.
Racing upstairs, he slipped the battery into his pocket as he climbed. Reaching the top, the sound became louder—it was coming from the other detector, located on the ceiling between the bathroom and the two spare rooms. Panicked, he hurried into the office room and wheeled out the computer chair. He positioned it under the squealing device, climbed up, and using the wall for support unscrewed it in a frenzy, also removing the battery.
The sound stopped dead.
His eardrums throbbed and rang as he jumped from the unstable chair. He slipped the battery into his pocket and wheeled the chair back into the office, his heart slamming against his chest, his hands shaking, sweat pouring down his face.
But before he even had the chance to calm down, the house came alive again with the sound of the smoke detector, this time coming from the kitchen.
“Bloody hell!”
He sprinted down the stairs, missing the last few steps completely. Storming into the kitchen as if his house was ablaze, he pulled out one of the chairs from under the table and climbed up, disconnecting the last remaining detector.
He stood in the kitchen, exhausted, shaking from head to toe, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. And then he remembered the dreaded chair. He took one look at it and left, still clenching the battery in his sweaty palm. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the other two. Shaking his head in mystification, he glared down at the batteries. “Bloody hell,” he said, for the fourth time.
He walked into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. His ears still rang loudly, so he picked up the remote control and switched on the TV, turning the volume up almost to the top. He ran his hand over his sweat-soaked face and sat back, eyes wide open.
He didn’t care what was on.
Anything would do.
Anything to take his mind off what he had just been put through.
Drained and exhausted, Richard had passed out on the couch, only to be woken by the TV being turned off. As his eyes opened he saw Nicky standing over him, holding the remote control. “Are you deaf or what?” she asked, still wearing her coat, her face filled with annoyance.
Sitting up on the couch, he rubbed his tired eyes. “What?”
“The TV—the volume was on full-blast.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize,” he replied.
“And why is the smoke alarm on the stairs? You haven’t unplugged it just in case your ghost sets it off, have you?” she asked, half-teasing, half-irritated.
He didn’t answer. How could he? He could never make her understand what had happened, make her believe. He was having enough trouble understanding it, believing it himself.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked, sounding concerned. “I was only teasing.”
“There’s no point,” he said.
“No point in what?”
He shook his head. “No point telling you why the smoke detectors are disconnected.”
She scowled at him. “Have you been drinking, or have I missed something?”
He got up and walked to the door.