The first time I heard the banging noise from my upstairs bedroom window, it was a black, starless night. I couldn’t see a thing when I stumbled from my bed to the open window. All I could hear was the roar of an engine as a car took off. The next morning we discovered that someone had smashed our mail box to smithereens.
We had to have a mail box so, of course, we replaced it, figuring lightning wouldn’t strike twice. A couple weeks later, we were again awakened by the sound of our mail box being demolished. My husband flew out of bed in his usual half asleep state and nearly flung himself through the screen window before I grabbed him.
We informed the local police, but I decided to take my own revenge. I hammered long nails into thin strips of wood. Every night I placed the strips on the street in front of my mailbox. Another week went by. I now was so sensitive to sound that the slightest noise would wake me. When I heard the clatter of one of my boards being spun into a wheel well, I thought for sure I had caught my man. I jumped to the window only to see a patrol car slowly pull away from our house and then abruptly stop. Oh shit. I had visions of some police officer pounding on the front door, but then, much to my relief, the patrol car drove on. In the dead of night, I slinked out of the house onto the dewy front lawn and quickly retrieved my wooden strips.
It was a blue moon that last night our visitor came. If a leaf were to fall off a tree, you could have heard the sound ricochet off all the homes in the neighborhood. I was deep asleep when all of the sudden I sat up and went to the window. In the moonlight, I saw the slender figure of a man as he raised a baseball bat or club and approached the mail box. All of the sudden a deep voice croaked. “Hey you, get out of there.” The voice boomed loudly through the slumbering neighborhood. The startled man ran to his car and floored it. It took me a moment to realize that the eerie voice had come from my own throat. He never returned.