Maybe it was a theremin, the sound of two lovers never fully agreeing. The neighbor’s dog seemed an unlikely channel, always more like a husky/shepherd mix. The dog always howled when sirens went by, which was often, the police station being just a few blocks away.

There was something in the initial attack that smelled of a brass chuch bell. Attack in the sense of a bow striking a string.

It wasn’t the garbage truck. That zenith having already been peaked and stomped around like a meeting of world leaders, a string full of empty cans dragged behind a car. Every bit of wedding cake eaten.

Not the train, either. While alike in sound objectively, the train’s psychological effect was consistent, and carried with it either an old sleep-softened quilt or a sneaky pinching at one’s elbow. The train is a form of insanity, while this sound was more likely fueled by whiskey. The train is an angry fish, while this sound certainly had hands.

So this was music. His neighbor’s music and it moaned and moaned and moaned. This was not his neighbor moaning, being a skinny white kid from Arizona. Nor the other neighbors. This sound was built to corkscrew itself into the brain of any creature around. Meant to make the stars blink with shame or blush. This sound had hands, and the hands could sandpaper and hadn’t known a blister in decades. This sound had hands, and the hands had certainly gripped a shovel, had buried something that it used to feed.

Not a theremin, it predated even simple electronics.