Howl: A True Story

A howl crept into my dreams last night, blurring the hazy line between real and make-believe.

Again it interrupted, closer. Louder. My ears, tuned through the years to hear any childish murmurs, perked up, alert, listening. It was 3:10 AM. The night should have been silent and still.

Screeching. An owl? Incomprehensible howls. A cat in heat? A wounded animal? It was creeping closer.

"Help! Somebody help me!"

I bolted strait up in bed, preying my heavy-sleeping husband heard it as well. He did.

"Oh, God... HELP!"

My husband peered out the window above our heads. I dashed to the blinds facing the street. A dark figure, a man, lurched down our quiet suburban street, haphazardly dodging between the streetlights as he screamed.

We looked at each other, panicked. We were awake, right?  I pinched myself to be sure. What should we do?

I grabbed the phone and for the first time in my life dialed 9-1-1.

I frequently call the number in my dreams (more technically, nightmares) and usually the phone just rings and rings until it rolls over to the droll automated voice telling me all lines are busy, please try again later. Or someone does finally answer and I have no voice...

Someone answered.

 "911, do you have an emergency?

"There's a man waking down my street. He's screaming for help."

"Does he look injured? Do you need an ambulance or police?"

"Yes, I don't know what's wrong with him, he's just crashing into things and screaming for help."

"We get calls like this all the time. Are you sure you need support?"

Am I sure?

Crashes echoed down the sleeping street as the man overturned recycling bins and garbage cans.  "Oh God, oh God, help meeeee..."

My husband peered out the stained glass of the front door, it's cut-work refracting the already disturbing scene outside. A knife filled one hand, a baseball bat the other.

Our son crept out of his bedroom, his sleepy eyes wide. "What's going on?"

Even with the full moon I could not make out any details of the man. Was he injured? A victim of a hit and run, burglary, or domestic dispute? Was he holding anything? An animal he hit with his car...or a child?

Was he a victim or a villain?

I read the newspaper, watch the news, and read far to many crime novels. I am acutely aware of the heinous acts man can commit against even those he may love the most. He could be fleeing the scene of the crime. Was there a scene of horror within some neighbors darkened house? Guns, knives, flames, even samurai swords have destroyed lives in even the quietest, supposedly safest suburbs nearby.

"Yes, we need the police, now, please..."

Three minutes, forty-eight seconds. That's how long my call to 9-1-1 lasted. Two police cars silently sped down the street, stopping just past our house. My husband burst out the door, his curiosity getting the best of him. I carried my son back to his bed then waited by the door for answers.

Two houses down, the police wrestled the man to the ground as he shouted, pleaded for help. Help from what? Drugs? PTSD? It was the night of 9/11...was he being chased down by ghosts and destruction?

I will never know.

Police cars cruised our street long after the ambulance pulled away.  All were silent: no lights, no sirens, once they passed no traces of their presence lingered on the moonlit lane.

Yet the rank smell of fear clung to us as we tried to return to sleep. We could not find safety or solace even huddled together under the sheets in our suburban glen. My hand grew stiff from grasping the phone, but I would not release my lifeline.

I would not go back to sleep this tonight. I held out for my saviors: daylight and coffee.


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