I WAS brushing my teeth around 11 o’clock the other Sunday night when someone rang my doorbell.

The digitized chime approximates the booming gong that might sound in an old horror movie at the moment the innocent girl dashes into the haunted mansion in the middle of a terrible storm after her car runs out of gas.

Which is to say the sound can be pretty spooky under the best of circumstances, and hearing it so late at night sent a chill down my spine.

I wasn’t expecting anyone. The U.P.S. man would never come at that time, and it was far too inappropriate an hour for any of the religious proselytizers who sometimes stop by my building urging me to find God.

I crept to my bedroom window, which overlooks the street, being careful to leave the light off as I peeked through the curtain. In the darkness, I saw a strange man in a white baseball hat looking up at me. I shrank back in terror, wondering whether he had seen me. A moment later, I seemed to have gotten my answer: The bell rang again.