To The Noises Our New Home Makes (first letter)

Do you hear us too?  I worry that my son will be startled by your creaking and cracking in the middle of the night.  Will I find him through the darkness in his crib, wide-eyed and upright, afraid of imagined intruders?  Perhaps I’m projecting.  I’ve been a little on edge since we moved in.  My wife tells me it’s just the house.  I’ll hear what sounds like the snapping of a branch or some bone.  She’ll say it’s the furnace starting up again.  I hear Death tapping with a scythe.  I get up and go to the front door.  I look through the peephole.  I turn on the outside entrance light and look through the peephole again.  I try to get a better view from a little window in the foyer but the angle is just too awkward.  I unlock the front door deadbolt and handle. I step outside.  There’s a loose latch on the gate of our next-door-neighbor’s fence.  I watch it clang in the wind but can’t quite believe it.  Is this what I’ve been listening to?
Something putters about above us.  There’s no attic, no accessible area for habitation or storage, but there’s got to be a lot of space up there.  The roof reaches from the top of the ground floor walls to a central point twelve feet up.  That’s a lot of emptiness, even with insulation, framing and whatnot.  I was half asleep and imagined every shadow from some old and forgotten film noir knocking about at once, somewhere above our ceiling.  The movie is reconstituted as an ongoing spectral orchestra, an endless but still ephemeral conflict, somehow intangible and concrete, out of sight but audible, both familiar and strange, maddening.
The other day, after a painfully brief afternoon nap, the sound above us returned and strange visions of my parents filled my head.  I pictured them as they were before meeting each other, and as they would be now if they’d never met.  I’ve often suspected these other versions of my mother and father remain confined to that inaccessible place where the puttering comes from, never aging, without any sense or senses, unable to detect one another, unaware of my parents or those living below them, always strangers to everything I think I know.
It’s as if this house is your instrument, granting you form as you play it.  Maybe it’s a kind of time engine too, churning up tenses with your expression.  Am I listening to past tenants and owners?  Do I hear the people who’ve lived and moved through here before the house was built?  Are there sounds from those who come after us, across circumstances I’ll never imagine?  Are you a kind of eternal aural tapestry, one that is only weaved within the uncanny experience of moving, of inhabiting a home that isn’t a home yet?  And if so, where is the experience truly situated?  Are you an externalization of something going on within ourselves?
I’ve been told that this modest, pre-war bungalow has no basement, but I still wonder if I’m hearing something, or someone, muttering from beneath the floorboards.
All I know for certain is that I’m listening.