Wednesday is the day of screaming. 

 

Nobody put it in their calendar. There were no posters and signs of warning plastered on every corner. It wasn’t announced on the town square. There were no newspaper articles, not even a cheap flyer. Maybe there should have been, but it was not talked about; it was only known.

 

First the wind is silent, a barely there touch of a gentle breeze on a humid summer day. It carries the scent, easy to miss, even easier to ignore. A mild coppery tinge that sticks to the inside of the nose and the back of the throat for hours. All the cats and dogs will circle around their territories, inside little gardens, upon the flowery balconies, deep down in narrow alleys, sniffing the air, searching, salivating. It’s not just copper. There’s an oily burnt stench underneath it, rotten wood, too-damp grass, and something else, something more putrid.

 

Then the trees rustle, like a breath, then a whisper, then a hiss. The wind catching on every branch and every leaf. The oak trees shake their enormous crowns, the pines shiver their needles to the ground. And the weeping willows by the creak dip their green heads deeper into the rushing stream, all the small green leaves washing away from the tips. The whistling gets caught in every ear, and the wind’s cold claws undo every bun, braid and ponytail.

 

The wind moves from western hills to eastern plains. It tramples through town like a galloping herd, stealing loosened tiles from rattling roofs. But it’s not the damage, it’s not the soaring stones and twigs, or the red blush it brings to pale cheeks. It’s not even the dust it blows down on every road and street, through every crack and under every crooked door. It’s the screams.

 

Dogs howl and children weep. They echo the sound that doesn’t just slither, it bursts in. They’re louder than the largest quivering trees, sharper than the tiles and glasses shattering on dusty cobbled streets. It’s not like the stench you ignore, it rides on the wind, it gets carried through every house, every street. Doors get shut and locks are turned. Some start singing, lips pale, but firm.

 

There are no words, no pleas, just a swarm of voices that ebb and flow with the wind.

 

It’s sharper at times, like a slice of a knife, then it tapers down to ragged whimpers from throats too worn for sound. Children ask, with faces red and shiny from tears and snot, but they are silenced. This is not talked about; it is only known.

 

 

Every Wednesday at 7am the old man unlocks his door and flicks up his lights, looks out at the empty square with a knowing crooked smile. He fetches his trusty old sign, pure white with big round black letters. He blows at it heartily to make sure there are no smudges of dust lingering anywhere on it. He props it up in the shop window, right in the centre under the lights and turns the sign on the door to “Open” with a flourish. He whistles a cheery tune as he goes further inside. He lazily bobs his grey head, with a youthful spring in his steps.

 

 

Soundproof doors and windows

20% off

Free delivery