The Sweeper in the Yard

At 2:55 on his third night in the house, John sat bolt upright in bed. His ears strained to make out any noise. The light bulb seared his tired eyes but he didn’t dare switch it off. He wrung his hands as he scanned the room for something solid to hold. His golf clubs were still in a crate downstairs, yet to be unpacked.

Two nights. That’s all. Two nights since he’d moved into what was supposed to be his haven. A quiet rural village. Stone built houses, neat yards, pub, post office, police station and not much else. The estate agent told him several times that the village valued quiet. He was most insistent about the fact, stressing over and over that there must be no noise whatsoever after dark. He’d become quite agitated until John had assured him he’d be as quiet as the grave.

That first night he’d fallen into bed shortly before midnight. It felt like mere minutes later when he was woken by the strange rasping sound from the yard outside. He switched on his lamp. 3 AM! He went, opened the window and peered into the darkness. The noise stopped. He went to close the window again when the noise started again. A steady, rhythmical rasp of bristles on slate.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

The noise stopped again with a sudden clatter as something was dropped. Heavy footsteps receded into the night. The next morning, he’d found an old broom in the yard.

His neighbour, Mrs. Wilkes, peered warily round the door at him.

She shook her head vigorously when he asked about the disturbance.

“Only someone was in my yard. They scarpered when I called out…”

“You called out?” She was aghast. “But there must be no noise! Weren’t you told?”

“Yes. But anyway, like I said, they ran off. Left their broom behind…”

She blanched. “He left his broom? I’m so sorry. The Sweeper likes the quiet,” she whispered and slammed the door.

That night he’d felt on edge. He’d dug an old torch out of one of the boxes before drifting into a fitful sleep. He started awake. It was 3 AM again and the sweeping noise was back only this time, it sounded closer. It was coming from downstairs. He flicked on the torch and made his way to the top of the stairs. His breath hoofed in front of him. He hadn’t noticed how cold it had become. He shone the beam of light down the staircase.

“Who’s there? This isn’t funny!”

Again, the sweeping stopped abruptly. He heard his front door slam and raced to it, yanking it open and shining the torch up and down the street. There was no trace anyone had been there. Heart thudding, he returned to the house and climbed the stairs. And there he saw it. Just inches from where he’d been standing. The broom he’d left in the yard the night before.

There was no answer when he pounded on Mrs. Wilkes’ door the next morning. A passerby told him she’d left suddenly the day before. He reported the intruder at the police station. The Duty Officer reacted the same way his neighbour had.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, his voice tight. “The Sweeper likes the quiet.”

He wandered the village like a marked man. People avoided eye contact. Mothers crossed the road.

Finally, as night drew in, a voice called him from the doorway of the pub.

“You shouldn’ta called out lad. Sweeper likes the quiet. T’aint right. You should’a been tole proper.”

“Quiet Jake,” snapped his companion. “You know it don’t do to talk of the Sweeper!”

“Who is the Sweeper?” cried John.

The men shook their heads and retreated into the twilight.

At home the unease gnawing at his insides writhed into full grown fear. In the glare of the light bulb, the clock hand twitched inexorably.

2:58.

His heartbeat sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed room.

2:59.

His breath swirled like fog in front of him.

3 AM.

The light flickered and died. The last vestige of his courage fled with it.

He clutched the bedsheets and whimpered. Just outside his bedroom door came the long, drawn out rasp of a broom.