Screaming Woman Burglar Alarm

The beginning of the song "Dreamweaver"

We were burgled in 2021. It was heartbreaking. Since then, I notice on Nextdoor, about every other day something is stolen, or someone’s home was burgled or robbed. (There’s a difference. Burgled means no one was home. Robbed, unfortunately, means an innocent person was in the house.) 

The next day we got a home alarm. It blares when tripped. It’s loud enough to be a deterrent. I hope. That and our Springer Spaniel who barks like a Mastiff might scare the perp back to Target. (Our local Target used to allow thieves to steal meat and towels but they were robbed so many times, they finally set up a sting. I happened to be there when it went down and was almost pummeled by a thief being chased by police.)

Our new alarm and cameras were comforting.

The burglar alarm we had when I was a kid scared the crap out of me.

It sounded like the beginning of the song Dream Weaver. Whenever I heard the tune on the radio my shoulders would brace like Ed Sullivan who looked like he was in a permanent shrug.

I was also terrified by the piercing red light indicating the alarm was armed. At night, from my bed, I would glance down the dark hallway. Staring back at me was that light. It made my short arm hairs stand up. I’d lock my door. It wasn’t until I was a teenager and my friend Maria slept over that my fear eased up. She named it HAL from 2001 A Space Odyssey. We’d giggle and pretend we were floating in space by moving our bodies in slow motion.

“Open the pod bay door, Hal.”

“I’m sorry, Dave.”

There were times the electric eye (now called a motion sensor) was set off. It was downstairs and ran between a two rooms connected by a long hallway. It was usually because of a moth or my cat, Buffy, that leapt in front of the invisible signal.

One night my middle sister and I were home alone. Debbie was maybe 14 which would make me almost 12. (Being born in November rendered my age an “almost.” Right now, I’m almost 60.) Our parents were out so we armed the alarm. I was upstairs in my room, door closed, when the Moog and ARP synthesizers of Dreamweaver screamed. I clumsily bolted. I crashed into the jamb as I opened the door. Blunt force trauma. Debbie was there in the hallway, her finger still in panic button position. 
“There’s someone downstairs” she shouted over Dreamweaver. “I heard something drop.”
The phone rang. The alarm company guy wanted to know our password but first please turn off the alarm. 
Debbie punched in the code. 
“Buffy,” she said. “That’s the password. There’s someone downstairs.” Debbie covered the receiver of the rust-colored phone so the downstairs murderer wouldn’t hear her. 
“Police are on their way. How old are you?”
“I’m 14 and my sister is almost 12.”
“Tell them we have an older sister too,” I said in case Debbie and I were chopped to pieces alarm man should know there would be a 16 year old who would be sisterless. This information would surely make alarm man tell police to hurry. I pictured Vicki making out with her boyfriend in his car when he dropped her off at home. Vicki saying, good night, entering the dark house, calling our names then flipping a switch and finding Debbie and me cut into tiny pieces. The only reason Vicki would recognize us is because she’d find remnants of my Lanz pajamas and a strap from Debbie’s Korkease.

Those could have been Debbie’s Korkease platform shoes

Debbie and I would have died mid-argument about who the monster man should kill first.
“Where are your parents?” said alarm guy.
“They’re out to dinner.”

A blip of a siren and the sound of two car doors slammed. I looked out the window. 
“It’s the police.”
Debbie told alarm station guy the police were here and hung up. 
“Who’s going downstairs to open the door?”
“Carrie, you go.” (I was nicknamed Carrie back then.)
“Why should I go? You’re the one who heard the noise.”
“Because mom put me in charge of you.”
“So I get to be murdered first?”
Debbie knew I had a point. 
“Let’s go down together,” she said. 
We tip toed down the stairs pausing at the bottom just in case the monster-man had a hatchet. He would jump out from behind the crewel sofa and hack Debbie’s feathered hair and my Jew fro.
A pounding knock made us trip over each other.

“Carrie, be careful!”

“You bumped into me!”

“You bumped first!—”

“Why don’t the police use the doorbell?”

“They’re weird.”

Another thwack was accompanied by a deep voice. “It’s the police.”
We raced to the door. Debbie was there first, turned the bolt and opened the door in a swift movement like a Charlie’s Angel escaping a haunted house.
We stepped back allowing the two officers inside. 

“I’m Deputy Mike and this is Officer Gabe.”
Debbie pointed toward the dark den. “That’s where I heard the noise. “
“In the den?” I said. “How could someone get into the den without breaking the glass sliding door?”

“Duh, through a window,” said Debbie.

“Which window? They’re all locked. You double checked every one of them when mom and dad left.”

The officers pointed their flashlights towards the darkness and walked towards it. I was impressed. I felt emboldened to walk behind them but stayed with Debbie. 
We watched the sharp white lights move around like a laser show in our groovy den with a painting whose canvas had to be hung sideways so it was the shape of a diamond. If the officers were to take off their black oxfords, they would enjoy a soft shag carpeting. They flipped the light switch. The den illuminated. Now the cops would see the plaid pattern of the carpet and the suede chairs that would be in style again in fifty years. 
“It’s clear.”
Debbie and I joined them in the den. The officers were gazing at the floor to ceiling bookshelves. 
Deputy Mike pointed to a book that was on its side. 
“Could the sound you heard be this book falling over?” He was looking at me. 
“Debbie heard the noise. Not me.” I was slightly embarrassed there wasn’t a burglar although relieved we weren’t going to be murdered. 
“I guess,” said Debbie disappointed but stoic. 
“We’ll check out the rest of the house but I’m sure there’s no one here. Maybe try your parents at the restaurant.”
Debbie and I whispered to each other as we followed the cops around the house, stepping over each other, saying, Ouch, and grumbling. 
“Didn’t they go to Ah Fongs?”
“No they went to Hamburger Hamlet.”
“It was Ah Fongs.”
“No…”
Deputy Mike eyed us as we argued and said to his partner, “Sounds like my house.”
Debbie and I stopped bickering. 
“It was just a book,” I mumbled.
The officers left, and our parents returned from a sushi place on Ventura Boulevard. It was the first in the valley— before anyone knew the delicacy of raw fish but my parents had been to the “Orient” and were fans. 

Thankfully, our current alarm doesn’t sound like the beginning of Dreamweaver. It’s more like an ambulance siren. Besides a sweet dog who has a deep, guttural bark (he needs a Ricola), I have a husband. He doesn’t know Krav Maga but can pack a suitcase that would impress a flight attendant. We have cameras around the house, I have a panic button and a couple of other items for my protection. (Ahem.) While I still miss ALL my jewelry, I hope that there’s a groom out there who bought an estate wedding ring from a not so credible store, unbeknownst to him, but will live happily ever after with his bride. Unfortunately, this couple will never know that this diamond ring was worn by Jeffrey’s grandmother, his mother, then me, with love and purpose.

1.     Do you think a burglar alarm should sound like a woman screaming?

2.     Were you burgled too? Car stolen? Catalytic converter?

3.     Do you have a sister who heard things that went bump in the night?

4.     Are you a Gary Wright fan?