...of an intrusion

At first he thought of the crack of the whip, a common enough sound to hear in the early morning when the dustmen went on their round.
But this noise hadn't come from outside. Nor was it the crack of a whip. There was more weight in it than that, more percussion, so much so that he had really felt a slight shock in his chest before his ears actually heard it.
As he looked up, listening, the expression on his face was one of slight annoyance at the intrusion. It might have taken for anxiety, but it wasn't that.
What was so impressive was the silence which followed. A silence more compact, more positive than any ordinary one, but which yet seemed full of strained vibrations. He didn't get up from his chair at once. He filled his glass, emptied it, put his cigarette back in his mouth, then heaved himself up and went over to the door, where he listened for a second before opening it.
When he switched on the light in the passage, three dusty lamps lit up receding stretches of emptiness. There was no one there, nothing except that weighty, tense silence.


[The Strangers in the House, Simenon, G.]

- submitted by Pearce, M A.