If rural life has done anything, it has taught me how to be self-sufficient; I pity a man who can't be alone. There is nothing like a solitary evening in an old house, cooped up with one's dogs and books, to sharpen the senses and shorten the wind. One night recently, for instance, I suddenly felt I had to think things out and packed my family off to the seashore. It was ten above zero and building to a blizzard, but when I have to think things out I have no time for sentimental considerations. Breathing a sigh of relief, I double-locked the doors, barricaded them with bureaus and chairs, and set about preparing supper. I had some difficulty getting the beans out of the can, but I shortly contrived a serviceable bandage for my wrist and snuggled down in front of a crackling fire with the diaries of Wilfred Seawen Blunt. I had read little more than three pages when I realized I was holding the diaries upside down and listening intently to a noise in the kitchen.
Loosely speaking, the sound combined a creak and a sigh suggestive of a musical saw. Now and again, it was smothered by a soft, mirthless laugh ending in a sharp click. My dogs, quick to guard their master, formed into a hollow square and withdrew under the couch. I dried my palms, which seemed to have accumulated a slight film of oil, and picked up the fire tongs. "Whose there?" I inquired in a crisp falsetto. (After all, I thought, why waste a trip to the kitchen if nobody was there.) There was no answer; whoever it was didn't even have the common decency to reply. Angered, I strode toward the kitchen, whistling to warn of my approach, and flung open the door. Everything was in apple-pie order, including the apple pie, except that the rocking chair was bobbing slowly back and forth.
"That's odd---very odd," I murmured, re-entering the living room and tripping over a chair. "Probably caused by a draft from an open window, or something."
"Or something," agreed one of the dogs from under the couch.
"Who said that?" I demanded sharply. The craven cur was frightened back into silence. I yawned casually, an effort that almost resulted in lockjaw, and consulted my watch. "Well, I guess I'll turn in," I observed to nobody in particular. Hearing no objection, I started for the stairs, the dogs clustered about my ankles. A brisk, affable voice cut me short.
"The three homicidal maniacs who fled the county home for the insane are still at large tonight," it said chattily. "If you see a burly man of fifty with an ice pick---" I cannot abide petty gossip; switching off the radio, I went up the steps, taking them four at a time. It was a trifle close under the covers, especially as the dogs persisted in huddling in with me, but it made for a warm, gemutlich feeling. About 9:30, someone in the attic started dragging a body across the floor by the hair, occasionally belting it with a strap. My blood boiled at the cruelty, and yet it occurred to me that it was really none of my affair. I had lived in the house only eleven years; the people upstairs were undoubtedly the pre-Civil War tenants, who had every right to do as they pleased. I took ten or twelve small fruit tablets and straightway fell into a refreshing doze, which would have lasted until morning had my family not returned unexpectly. They had a little trouble recognizing me with white hair, though otherwise I was the same kindly, indulgent Dads they had always worshiped. In a way, it was fun seeing them too, but one of these days I've simply got to get away by myself and think things out.
S.J. Perelman
The Most of S.J. Perelman
©1958, Simon & Schuster