15...
“What,” Frank mumbled.
The bell continued to ring despite Frank’s questioning. The fourth ring died off in the middle somewhere. The machinery inside the phone, shocked into inactivity, couldn’t help a little jittery sound. Frank listened to the room settle back into relative silence.
Voicemail. He wasn’t sure if he actually said that out loud, and frankly didn’t care. Somewhere, he was blessing the invention of voicemail as he tumbled back into the dark.
With the ringing of the bell, his eyes snapped open completely this time.
“Are you kidding me?” His tongue was still thick from sleep, he sounded a little drunk.
The phone again ignored all questioning and kept ringing out to the room. Frank could almost see it shaking like a cartoon with each brittle ring. Again, somewhere amid the fourth ring, the monster was snuffed out. God in voicemail yanking the call out of this life.
The imaginary voices he thought of speaking into the voicemail void became thicker and somewhat bluish, they whispered soothingly down a lengthening pass. They suddenly shifted to screams with the ringing of the phone.
“NO!”
Frank, for nobody’s benefit in particular, dramatically threw a pillow over his head in a halfhearted attempt to block out the sound. And yeah, the ringing now sounded like asylum laughter.
“Leave a voicemail!”
Again after the fourth ring, it stopped. Frank didn’t even bother to close his eyes this time. He held his breath and stared, listening to his heart beat, waiting. He could feel that dull anger throbbing in his head, and he was ready to pounce.
Silence, broken by the occasional sound of motorcycles on the street outside, held sway. Frank could feel sleep coming at him again, but he wasn’t quite ready to quit his watch on the phone. Three times, the magic number, the number of times the devil is asked before he enters. Of course, somebody tried three times and when they couldn’t reach somebody, they gave up.
“Quitters,” he mumbled as he slowly closed his eyes.
The telephone jumped to life again. Frank threw back the covers and ran his naked form to the telephone.
“Who the fuck is it?” he screamed into the receiver.
He heard nothing and we would swear on it that he could feel his eyes about to pop.
Then there was a low laughter that shut everything down.
The bell continued to ring despite Frank’s questioning. The fourth ring died off in the middle somewhere. The machinery inside the phone, shocked into inactivity, couldn’t help a little jittery sound. Frank listened to the room settle back into relative silence.
Voicemail. He wasn’t sure if he actually said that out loud, and frankly didn’t care. Somewhere, he was blessing the invention of voicemail as he tumbled back into the dark.
With the ringing of the bell, his eyes snapped open completely this time.
“Are you kidding me?” His tongue was still thick from sleep, he sounded a little drunk.
The phone again ignored all questioning and kept ringing out to the room. Frank could almost see it shaking like a cartoon with each brittle ring. Again, somewhere amid the fourth ring, the monster was snuffed out. God in voicemail yanking the call out of this life.
The imaginary voices he thought of speaking into the voicemail void became thicker and somewhat bluish, they whispered soothingly down a lengthening pass. They suddenly shifted to screams with the ringing of the phone.
“NO!”
Frank, for nobody’s benefit in particular, dramatically threw a pillow over his head in a halfhearted attempt to block out the sound. And yeah, the ringing now sounded like asylum laughter.
“Leave a voicemail!”
Again after the fourth ring, it stopped. Frank didn’t even bother to close his eyes this time. He held his breath and stared, listening to his heart beat, waiting. He could feel that dull anger throbbing in his head, and he was ready to pounce.
Silence, broken by the occasional sound of motorcycles on the street outside, held sway. Frank could feel sleep coming at him again, but he wasn’t quite ready to quit his watch on the phone. Three times, the magic number, the number of times the devil is asked before he enters. Of course, somebody tried three times and when they couldn’t reach somebody, they gave up.
“Quitters,” he mumbled as he slowly closed his eyes.
The telephone jumped to life again. Frank threw back the covers and ran his naked form to the telephone.
“Who the fuck is it?” he screamed into the receiver.
He heard nothing and we would swear on it that he could feel his eyes about to pop.
Then there was a low laughter that shut everything down.
posted by P. B. Nomer | 8:02 PM
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