No Safe House

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Richard Bradley had never thought of himself as a violent man, but right now he was ready to kill someone.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he said, sitting on the side of the bed in his pajamas.

“You’re not going out there,” said his wife, Esther. “Not again. Just let it go.”

Not only could they hear the music blaring from next door; they could feel it. The deep bass was pulsing through the walls of their house like a heartbeat.

“It’s eleven o’clock, for Christ’s sake,” Richard said, turning on his bedside table lamp. “And it’s Wednesday. Not Friday night or Saturday night, but Wednesday.”

The Bradleys had lived in this modest Milford home, on this hundred-year-old street with its mature trees, for nearly thirty years. They’d seen neighbors come and go. The good, and the bad. But never had there been anything as bad as this, and it had been going on for a while. Two years back, the owner of the house next door started renting it to students attending Housatonic Community College over in Bridgeport, and since then the neighborhood had gone, as Richard Bradley liked to proclaim on a daily basis, “to hell in a handcart.”

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