“Uh-huh!” Dubby’s eyes were shining. “It’ll eat up all the noises. I can make lotsa racket then, ‘cause it’ll eat it all up and make it real quiet for you so’s you can do your jommety.” “Now that’s right thunkful of you, podner,” drawled June. “Make it a good one, because little boys make a lot of noise.” “Okay.” And Dubby finally climbed down and settled back against his pillows. The heating system hummed. The old refrigerator in the kitchen cleared its throat and added its chirking throb to the voice of the house. The mantel clock tocked firmly to itself in the front room. June was absorbed in her homework when a flutter of movement at her elbow jerked her head up. “Dubby!” she began indignantly. “Shh!” Dubby pantomimed, finger to lips, his eyes wide with excitement. He leaned against June, his fever radiating like a small stove through his pyjamas and robe. His breath was heavy with the odour of illness as he put his mouth close to her ear and barely whispered: “I made it. The Noise-eater. He’s asleep now. Don’t make a noise or he’ll get you.” “I’ll get you, too,” said June. “Play-like is play-like, but you get right back on that couch!” “I’m too scared,” breathed Dubby. “What if I cough?” “You will cough if you –” June started in a normal tone, but Dubby threw himself into her lap and muffled her mouth with his small hand. He was trembling. “Don’t! Don’t!” he begged frantically. “I’m scared. How do you un-play-like? I didn’t know it’d work so good!” There was a choonk and a slither in the front room. June strained her ears, alarm stirring in her chest. “Don’t be silly,” she whispered. “Play-like isn’t for true. There’s nothing in there to hurt you.” A sudden succession of musical pings startled June and threw Dubby back into her arms until she recognised Mrs. Warren’s bedroom clock striking seven o’clock – early as usual. There was a sort of drawn-out slither in the front room and then silence. “Go on, Dubby. Get back on the couch like a nice child. We’ve played long enough.” “You take me.” June herded him ahead of her, her knees bumping his reluctant back at every step until he got a good look at the whole front room. Then he sighed and relaxed. “He’s gone,” he said normally. “Sure he is,” replied June. “Play-like stuff always goes away.” She tucked him under his covers. Then, as if hoping to brush his fears – and hers – away, by calmly discussing it, “What did he look like?” “Well, he had a body like Mother’s vacuum cleaner – the one that lies down on the floor – and his legs were like my sled, so he could slide on the floor, and he had a nose like the hose on the cleaner only he was able to make it long or short when he wanted to.” Dubby, overstrained, leaned back against his pillows. The mantel clock began to boom the hour deliberately. “And he had little eyes like the light inside the refrigerator –” June heard a choonk at the hall door and glanced up. Then with fear-stiffened lips, she continued for him, “And ears like TV antennae because he needs good ears to find the noises.” And watched, stunned, as the round metallic body glided across the floor on shiny runners and paused in front of the clock that was deliberately on the sixth stroke. The long, wrinkly, trunk-like nose on the front of the thing flashed upward. The end of it shimmered, then melted into the case of the clock. And the seventh stroke never began. There was a soft sucking sound and the nose dropped free. On the mantel, the hands of the clock dropped soundlessly to the bottom of the dial. In the tight circle of June’s arms, Dubby whimpered. June clapped her hand over his mouth. But his shoulders began to shake and he rolled frantic imploring eyes at her as another coughing spell began. He couldn’t control it. June tried to muffle the sound with her shoulder, but over the deep, hawking convulsions, she heard the choonk and slither of the creature and screamed as she felt it nudge her knee. Then the long snout nuzzled against her shoulder and she heard a soft hiss as it touched the straining throat of the coughing child. She grabbed the horribly vibrating thing and tried to pull it away, but Dubby’s cough cut off in mid- spasm. In the sudden quiet that followed she heard a gurgle like a straw in the bottom of a soda glass and Dubby folded into himself like an empty laundry bag. June tried to straighten him against the pillows, but he slid laxly down. June stood up slowly. Her dazed eyes wandered trance-like to the clock, then to the couch, then to the horrible thing that lay beside it. Its glowing eyes were blinking and its ears shifting planes – probably to locate sound. Her mouth opened to let out the terror that was constricting her lungs, and her frantic scream coincided with the shrill clamour of the telephone. The Eater hesitated, then slid swiftly toward the repeated ring. In the pause after the party line’s four identifying rings, it stopped and June clapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes dilated with paralysed terror. The ring began again. June caught Dubby up into her arms and backed slowly toward the front door. The Eater’s snout darted out to the telephone and the ring stilled without even an after-resonance. The latch of the front door gave a rasping click under June’s trembling hand. Behind her, she heard the choonk and horrible slither as the Eater lost interest in the silenced telephone. She whirled away from the door, staggering off balance under the limp load of Dubby’s body. She slipped to one knee, spilling the child to the floor with a thump. The Eater slid toward her, pausing at the hall door, its ears tilting and moving. June crouched on her knees, staring, one hand caught under Dubby. She swallowed convulsively, then cautiously withdrew her hand. She touched Dubby’s bony little chest. There was no movement. She hesitated indecisively, then backed away, eyes intent on the Eater. Her heart drummed in her burning throat. Her blood roared in her ears. The starchy krunkle of her wide skirt rattled in the stillness. The fibres of the rug murmured under her knees and toes. She circled wider, wider, the noise only loud enough to hold the Eater’s attention – not to attract him to her. She backed guardedly into the corner by the radio. Calculatingly, she reached over and clicked it on, turning the volume dial as far as it would go. The Eater slid tentatively toward her at the click of the switch. June backed slowly away, eyes intent on the creature. The sudden insane blare of the radio hit her an almost physical blow. The Eater glided up close against the vibrating cabinet, its snout lifting and drinking in the horrible cacophony of sound. June lurched for the front door, wrenching frantically at the door knob. She stumbled outside, slamming the door behind her. Trembling, she sank to the top step, wiping the cold sweat from her face with the underside of her skirt. She shivered in the sharp cold, listening to the raucous outpouring from the radio that boomed so loud it was no longer intelligible. She dragged herself to her feet, pausing irresolutely, looking around at the huddled houses, each set on its own acre of weeds and lawn. They were all dark in the early winter evening. June gave a little moan and sank on the step again, hugging herself desperately against the penetrating chill. It seemed an eternity that she crouched there before the radio cut off in mid-note. Fearfully, she roused and pressed her face to one of the door panes. Dimly through the glass curtains she could see the Eater, sluggish and swollen, lying quietly by the radio. Hysteria was rising for a moment, but she resolutely knuckled the tears from her eyes. The headlights scythed around the corner, glittering swiftly across the blank windows next door as the car crunched into the Warren’s driveway and came to a gravel-skittering stop. June pressed her hands to her mouth, sure that even through the closed door she could hear the choonk and slither of the thing inside as it slid to and fro, seeking sound. The car door slammed and hurried footsteps echoed along the path. June made wild shushing motions with her hands as Mrs. Warren scurried around the corner of the house. “June!” Mrs. Warren’s voice was ragged with worry. “Is Dubby all right? What are you doing out here? What’s wrong with the phone?” She fumbled for the door knob.
