Glass Ghost

I traipsed downstairs late in the morning. The kitchen silence hung heavy. And then I heard the sound. A low whistling. Like the sound of the wind blowing through a keyhole, or the moaning of old pipes in winter. It took me a while to figure out what it was, or even where it was coming from.

It was coming from the corner. It was coming from a cluster of empty glass bottles, left for the bottle bank. It was the sound of someone blowing air across the mouth of a bottle. Except there was no-one there. And neither could it be a breeze, because there were no doors open, and only one of the bottles was making the sound.

A phantom. A ghost.

And then I heard the second sound. Like suddenly discerning the high note in a perfume. A buzzing noise. Waxing and waning. Whirling, whinily. The treble to the whistle's base. And the culprit of the strange sound.


Trapped inside the glass bottle, buzzing in frantic circuits in the pond-green glass - a fly. Its tiny wings whipping up air to sing that low and beautiful note. 


My curiosity was sated. But my mind was left whirring at the uncanny explanation. The simplicity of it.