It must have been the early morning hours when I woke up to the strange sound outside. It was an odd sort of throaty, whiny singing like Southern mountain music that seemed to come from just outside the bedroom window. Accompanying the singing was the twanging of a banjo in need of tuning, slow and soft. The voice of the old man would sing a line, and the banjo would make a one-string twang. It was just soft enough so that I couldn’t make out any words.
When I first woke up the sound seemed to have been coming from the other side of the wall, right outside the room I was sleeping in. My first instinct was panic, and I immediately curled legs to my chest protectively, grabbed the blankets, and pulled them up to my neck. I was absolutely terrified of what might be lurking outside. My boyfriend slept next to me, undisturbed. It often annoyed me that he could sleep through anything like that. Living way out there in the woods of the deep South, I sometimes worried about someone breaking in, and him just sleeping through it. I nudged him a couple of times, whispering his name, but he didn’t budge.
Exasperated, I sighed and threw back the comforter. It was time to woman up and check things out. But just in case, I grabbed the extra hardwood rod leftover from when we’d put in the closet organizers. Afraid to actually peek out the windows, I followed the sound along the bedroom wall. The old man seemed to be walking very slowly around the perimeter of the house as he sang. I wondered if there was an elderly neighbor who was confused and just needed an escort back home. Then I remembered the former owner had passed away in the little house at the front of our property. I wondered if he played banjo.
I followed the eerie sound through the big bedroom and down the hall, barely breathing. I tried hard not to make the floorboards squeak, and especially to not be seen through any windows. My heart was pounding almost painfully by the time I made it to the front door. My breath was caught in my chest and every muscle ached from the tension. The sound was louder now, right outside the door. It was as though he was waiting for me on the front steps.
I swallowed as much of my fear as I could and swung open the door forcefully, brandishing the closet rod. Frantically I looked around, swinging the rod as threateningly as I could. There was nothing there. No old man, and even the singing had stopped. I quickly slammed the front door closed and collapsed on the floor shaking. It was hours before I could go back to bed.
I never heard Old Man Banjo again after that, but one night a few weeks later I did hear music outside. It sounded like someone was having a party over in the little house at the front of our property, where my boyfriend’s father was living now. He was something of a loner, so I was happy to hear him having fun. The music was wild and people were laughing. I thought I’d go over and wish him a good time, maybe have a couple of drinks with him. I put on my shoes and swung open the door with a grin, and then stopped short. The lights were out and all was silent at the little house. Again I slammed shut the door and curled up on the house shaking. Old Man Banjo had come back for another visit.