Phone
Kara Rochelle
Copyright Kara Rochelle 2012
Published at Smashwords
Aunt Wilda was an evil old woman. She hated everyone, had no friends, and not even we, her family, liked her much at all. She was a devout Christian, holier than us all, and no one could do right by her. As far as she was concerned, everyone was going to hell, except for her.
The last time we saw her alive was our family reunion, which of course was held at her house. She stalked around with her beak-like nose in the air, glaring at everyone, never hesitating to bring the judgment of God upon each of us. "Young lady," she squawked at me, "You take that ring out of your lip this instant! And wipe all that black off your eyes. You look like a harlot."
A week after the reunion, the calls started. At three in the morning, I woke up to my cell phone ringing beneath my pillow. It was Aunt Wilda's number, the number to the cell phone we had talked her into getting in case of emergencies. Naturally, I was worried. She may have been a mean old bat, but she might have been hurt, so I answered right away.
"Aunt Wilda? Are you okay?"
Static on the other end.
"Hello? Are you there?"
Static. Distant crying.
"Can you hear me?"
An electronically distorted scream shattered my eardrum. Then the line went dead. I dialed her back, but I only heard a message informing me that the number had been disconnected. I tried her home phone, but it just rang and rang. Eventually, I decided it must have been some sick prank and went back to sleep.
The next night was the same event. At three o'clock AM, the cell phone under my pillow went off and woke me up. It was Aunt Wilda's cell. I answered.
"Hello?"
Static.
"Aunt Wilda, if it's you, say something."
Static. A brief cry.
"If you're hurt, you need to call 911, okay? Are you listening?"
The static was broken at intervals by words.
"…it…if I…cell phone is…"
"What? You're breaking up. What about the phone?"
Her voice was becoming frantic.
"…where…can't…dark…"
Another blood-curdling scream erupted from the earpiece, clearer than it was last time, less electronic and more human. There was another voice, a very deep, growling voice, speaking in a language I didn't know. It bellowed while the female voice screamed. I snapped the phone shut with shaking hands. After a moment, I tried to dial both of Aunt Wilda's numbers, but I got the same results as before—a message that the cell number was no longer available, and no answer from her home phone.
I couldn't sleep the next night. I lay awake, staring at the clock, waiting for the phone to ring. Sure enough, when the digital numbers flashed from 2:59 to 3:00, the ringtone played beneath my head. It looped twice, then there was a beep to alert me that I had missed a call. Two minutes later, there was another beep. New voicemail.
I took a deep breath, pulled the phone out, and dialed the voicemail inbox. "You have one new message," the pleasant recorded voice said. Then there were the sounds of chaos. It was nearly unbroken by static, and I could hear full sentences. It was undoubtedly Aunt Wilda's voice, barely distinguishable over loud thunder, explosions, other people screaming and lamenting, and booming, inhuman growls.
"Help me! I don't know where I am! It's so dark!" There was a short interval of static, then I heard her cry, "Oh God, no! Not again! It's coming back!" A chorus of wails rose. More deep voices shouted in strange languages. The screams died back down slowly. I could make out some of what the other human voices were saying, but none of it made much sense.
"They're crawling in my guts!"
"Someone, please kill me! Kill me!"
"They took my baby! They stole her from my belly!"
"Just a drop of water! Please!"
"I keep chewing it off and it keeps on growing back!"
"You fucking bastards!"
"Get them off! Kill them! The stingers are in my eyes!"
"It can't be!" It was Aunt Wilda's voice again. "This isn't right! It can't be here! It's a mistake! It's—"
"End of message," the pleasant voice interrupted. "To save this message, please press—"
I pushed the END button and closed the phone slowly, laying it down on my chest. I lay there like that until morning light crept across the ceiling.
Every night at three o'clock, my phone would ring, I would ignore it, and I would erase the voicemail message that followed without listening to it. I never told anyone why I was always so tired, why I couldn't sleep at night.
One afternoon, a week after the calls had begun, a policeman knocked on our door. Mom answered. I stood in the doorway to the living room, listening. Aunt Wilda was dead, and since we lived the closest to her, we were the ones asked to identify the body.
Mom and I drove two hours to the city Aunt Wilda had lived in her whole life. There she was, in the morgue, lying on a table under a sheet, skin draping off her bones, one week dead. She had been found that morning by a neighbor who had knocked on her door to complain about her dog's incessant barking. This neighbor had been able to smell the body from the front porch. She had apparently fallen down the stairs and broken her neck.
Among her possessions was the cell phone. It was found on her bedside table, half melted by some extremely hot, though unidentified, source of heat.