What the Cough Left Behind

by Chris Carrel

When the red house began coughing, we realized we had not seen the couple outside for several days. This was not remarkable in itself as the weather had turned chilly, and cold and flu season was in full swing. We knew many people fighting respiratory infections, and all of them were coughing.

And yet, the sound emanating from the house was as distinct as it was unsettling. It sounded like a raspy cry from a rusty trumpet, the pained wailing of a large and forlorn beast caught in a trap. It barked and yowled in percussive explosions of air and phlegm. We closed our eyes and because we had been inside the red house at a party earlier in the year, we could see the interior drenched in a cloud of viral particles and dead cells falling like ash at the end of days. 

We wondered if they needed help, though we did not want to get sick ourselves. They had grown children in the area, didn’t they? We thought they did. 

The noises grew louder and more distressing as the days went on, unsettling and intriguing in equal measures. We could not remember ever hearing a cough as hideous as this. 

At the time the newspapers were full of headlines about strange and devastating new illnesses. The Internet frothed over with rumors of genetically engineered microbes and undiagnosable illnesses that lingered on, causing disfigurement and death. Even the common cold could be dangerous, they said.

Despite the weather, we found ourselves making excuses to do yard work or walk the dog, just so that we could listen to the strange transformation of their coughing. Soon, we could hear them from inside our own house, and we stopped going outdoors to eavesdrop. We gathered with our neighbors in small groups to listen to the hacking noises and discuss the situation. Should we help the couple? Was there a danger of contagion from the cough? Should we call the authorities, and who were the authorities in such a case?

We compared what we knew of the couple, which we soon realized was vague and unreliable. He was tall and worked in public administration or healthcare, and she was from Nebraska and worked as a lawyer or law clerk. We thought. 

We all agreed that something should be done, and so it was that the two of us were selected to knock on the door. We wore masks and after knocking took several steps back in case they opened the door. From inside came the muffled sound of footsteps and something heavy and ominous being dragged across a wood floor. Then, nothing. We knocked again and stood back. 

A single cough answered. We looked at each other in confusion, then introduced ourselves through the door and asked how they were doing. Did they need anything?

This was answered by a cough we identified as the husband, as the rattle generated from deep, voluminous lungs. The wife followed with her own short series of coughs, lighter and airy, with a hint of Midwestern reserve. We answered as best we could and soon had a rudimentary conversation between their coughing and our more traditional word-based communication. The gist of it was that they had indeed been sick and developed a nasty cough, but they were feeling much better and there was no need to worry. Soon, they would be like new, they assured us. Everything was fine. Really.

As we walked the footpath through the yard and back to the road, we could hear the husband and wife discussing something urgently in a series of coughed exchanges, though we could only speculate what had them so animated. If we didn’t know better, we might have thought they had something to hide.

We reported back to the neighbors, who were all pleased with themselves for their act of neighborly concern, even though it was only the two of us who had approached the house. Soon enough, things seemed to go back to normal in the neighborhood. Cold and flu season ebbed, the weather began to warm, and the coughing from the red house died down and then disappeared.

We emerged from winter changed by our experience. Curiosity had driven us to speculation and worry, and from there to a newfound empathy for our neighbors. As the days warmed, though, anxious thoughts returned. What we heard that day through the unyielding face of the closed door unsettled us and defied easy answers. We recalled the strange, alien communication and the sound of a large body being dragged, or possibly dragging itself. We admitted to each other a sense that some minatory presence had lurked on the other side of the door, though it was hard to judge such an impression looking backward. 

We had to wonder how the winter had changed the couple and what the cough had left behind.

From our living room window we can see the front door of the red house where we stood listening to the hacking, wheezing noises of the married couple. We keep an eye on the door whenever we can and wait anxiously for the couple to emerge from the red house.