Free Apprehensions and Other Delusions by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

her flat. “This makes me very curious.”
    “Curious?” she repeated. “How can it?”
    “You’re not a theoretical physicist, are you? I am.” His expression just missed being smug. “There’s got to be a reason why this happens. And there’s got to be a reason why it’s loudest in your flat. How long has it been going on?”
    “Since shortly after you moved in, maybe three weeks now. I thought you’d bought new speakers.” She did her best not to sound as irritated as she felt. “I only complained when it had been over a week.”
    “I can’t blame you, not with that going on.” He opened the door and sound rushed out like a tidal bore.
    “What can you do about it?” She hated asking the question, and dreaded the answer.
    “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m up against.” He listened for a moment. “It’s hard to hear if there are any words to it, or just some kind of howling. I’ll want to bring a tape recorder down and hook it up, if you don’t mind.”
    “Fine with me,” she said wearily. “I tried it once, but all I got was static.”
    “Probably overloaded,” Eric said. “I’ll check this out with acoustics first, so we can make sure we get it all on tape. We’ll be improvising, but there should be an answer somewhere.” He smiled once. “I’m glad you told me about this.”
    “I wish I didn’t have to,” she responded at once. “I hope you do something. I can’t wait around forever, waiting for a lull in the storm.”
    He chuckled because it was expected of him. “I’d feel the same in your position.” With the suggestion of a wave he left her on the back porch and climbed up to his flat.
    Fanchon had a loud evening; by ten she was seriously considering breaking her lease without notice. Sacrificing the various deposits seemed like a small price to pay for sleeping through the night. She set aside her tables of salaries of domestic servants in London in 1870-1880 and turned on her television, hoping to find a late, late movie to distract her. The pounding on her door at last broke through the relentless moaning of the walls.
    “What is it?” she shouted as she fumbled her way to the back door. It was early morning, the sun not strong enough to break through the haze.
    Eric Muir held out a tape recorder as she pulled the door open.
    “Sorry to stop by at this hour, but I thought you’d want this set up as soon as possible.” He strode into her kitchen without invitation. “Where’s the noise the worst? I want to put this as near the epicenter as possible.”
    “In the front. The main room or the bedroom, it’s all about the same.” She rubbed her fingers through her hair.
    “There’s a sound-activated switch on it, and it’s an extended reel of tape. It’ll pick up sound for six hours.” He went about his self-imposed task, ignoring her as he worked.
    “Some coffee?” She had to bellow it twice before he refused.
    “It’s all ready to go,” he told her a little later as she sat in the kitchen, unable to eat the light breakfast she had made for herself. “It ought to pick up all fluctuations pretty well. That thumping part must be the hardest to take.”
    “It’s pretty bad,” she agreed.
    “There’s half a dozen guys in the department who’re interested in what’s going on here. We’ll probably come up with some kind of answer in a day or two.”
    A spattering kind of rattle joined the twanging beat. Fanchon winced. “Any idea what it is?”
    “Perturbed spirits?” Eric ventured enthusiastically. “Demon CBers? Dish antenna misfocus? Underground water carrying sounds through the plumbing? A misfunction of a cable? They’re all possibilities.”
    “How delightful.” Fanchon got up from the table. “What am I supposed to do while you figure it out?”
    “You might want to find somewhere to stay while I work on this,” he said.
    “Any recommendations?” she inquired, knowing already that her sister lived too far away and her