The Phone

By

Michael Robertson Jr.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarities to events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and should be recognized as such. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, etc.) without the prior written consent and permission of the author.

Copyright © 2012 Michael Robertson, Jr

Cover Design Copyright © 2012 Jason Collins

All rights reserved

Also by Michael Robertson, Jr

Rough Draft

Day Care (Short Story)

The Teachers’ Lounge (Collection)

Regret

For JaC

The house really was an improvement over their last one. Emily’s bedroom was nearly twice as large as before, and Johnny’s room was now a whole fifteen feet down the hall, with a bathroom in between them, as opposed to right next door with only one paper-thin wall to separate their living habits.

“Emily! There’re more boxes down here that need unloading. Are you coming?” Her mother’s voice called her away from her tiny break, and Emily pushed herself off the floor and went out into the hall. “Coming!”

The sweat was dripping down her back and across her forehead. Her tank top stuck to her skin. While the house was very large, very spacious, and very pleasing to the eye, it was also very old. There was no central air, as was not uncommon in upstate New Hampshire, only a few window A/C units here and there, and a ceiling fan in every room. The heat-wave that was currently devouring the entire east coast with a ferocity that left weathermen with nothing else to say except, “Stay inside, folks,” and, “Drink lots of water!” was making the Anderson family moving day a living hell.

Emily walked down the creaking stairs to the first floor and found her mom unpacking well-wrapped glasses from a box and putting them neatly into the cabinet. A window above the kitchen sink looked out to the street of their new suburban neighborhood and her mother turned from it saying, “Just saw a couple cuties walk down the street with a basketball. Looked about your age. Maybe you should go see if you can play with them.” Her mom finished the sentence with a wink and then returned her focus to the glasses.

Emily rolled her eyes. She was fifteen. And while the prospect of “cuties” that might be close to her age playing basketball in her new neighborhood definitely didn’t make her unhappy, her mother’s new hobby of trying to embrace Emily’s post-puberty interest in boys by acting like she wanted to be a part of it, was… unsettling. “I think I’ll just go see what I can help dad unload from the truck,” she said, and turned and made her way through the maze of her big new house and out the front door.

Emily found her dad sweating in the opened back of the moving truck, shuffling boxes around, as if maybe if he moved them around enough they’d somehow find their own way from the truck and into the house.

For Drew Anderson, the decision to move his family three hours away to a new town for his new job had been relatively easy. He’d worked long hours for not enough pay for five years at his old job, a small mobile applications software company. So when one of the big dogs in the software world came calling with an offer that was toeing the line of too-good-to-be-true, he’d done the respectable thing and sat down with his family for a long discussion. He wanted to hear their opinions, let them know the situation. But if he was being honest with himself, he was just putting on a front. He was going to be selfish about the matter if things came to the worst. He wasn’t proud of the emotion, but dammit, he’d worked hard for his family, he deserved this. Fortunately the whole bunch was ecstatic to hear the good news, and while Johnny had cried one night because he’d be leaving his friends behind, Emily and Marcy had supported him a hundred percent.

Emily climbed up the ramp and joined her father in the back of the truck. “Reporting for duty, sir,” she said, giving Drew a mock-salute.

“Your mother send you, soldier?”

Emily grinned. “Yep. Right after she gave me the scouting report on some boys she saw going down the street.”

“Oh yeah,” Drew said, “I saw them too. I think you should go see if you can play with them sometime—“

“Dad! Please, not you too.”

“—because from the looks of them, you could totally take them on the court.”

Emily grinned again. She loved her dad. She’d never admit it to his face, but she thought he was pretty cool, you know, as far as dads go. “Got a box I can carry in?”

Drew surveyed the back of the truck. “Those over there are all kitchen stuff, so you can take those in to your mother. I’m still sorting through the rest. When did we get so much stuff?”

Emily lifted the top box from the pile her dad had pointed to. “Probably around the time you had Johnny. I told you it was a bad idea.”

They both laughed. “And where is the brother whom you adore so greatly?”

“I think he’s in his room unpacking some of his video game stuff,” Emily called over her shoulder as she walked down the truck’s ramp with the box in her arms.

She caught a tiny glimpse of rapid movement coming from her left, but before she could turn and look, someone heavy tackled her off the truck’s ramp and knocked her to the ground. She managed to brace her fall with her hands, feeling the weight of whoever had hit her land on top of her shoulders, and was able to look up in time to see the box she’d been carrying fly through the air and land five feet away. She cringed as she waited for the shattering of glass as the box hit the yard, and was relieved and somewhat astonished when no noise came.

Then the person who’d tackled her began to lick her face, hot breath filling her nose, drool dripped down her cheek.

“Ace! Ace get off her!”

The dog who’d been so greedily licking Emily’s face stopped suddenly and turned around, sitting on the ground next to her and thumping its tail against the ground rapidly, as if its owner weren’t scolding it, but praising it for a job well done.

“Don’t try and play that good-boy act with me, mister. You’re guilty.”

A man was now standing in the yard and reaching down to secure a leash to the dog’s collar. The dog was a Golden Retriever. It looked to be fully grown and Emily guessed it to weigh nearly a hundred pounds. The man who’d attached the leash was tall, and from Emily’s viewpoint on the ground he towered over her like a pillar. She didn’t guess how much he might weigh, but he appeared to be in good shape. He looked older than her father, but maybe not by a lot.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” The tall man asked, reaching out a hand to help Emily off the ground. She looked at the hand for maybe a second longer than was considered polite, but then smiled graciously and took it, allowing the man to easily pull her up. She stood, brushing the grass from her legs and arms, and wiping the dog drool from her face. Drew was now walking quickly down the ramp, coming up beside her and sliding his arm around her. “I’m fine,” Emily said.

The tall man let his eyes go up and down her body one time, whether checking for injuries or appreciating her athletic body, Emily wasn’t sure. “I’m terribly sorry, really. Ace here gets excited when he sees new people and he bolted out the door before I could get the leash on him for our walk.” The dog remained obediently seated by its masters side, its head moving back and forth between the humans as they spoke.

“He’s getting old, Ace is, but he’s still got enough juice to get fired up now and again. Sweetest dog in the world though, never hurt a fly… intentionally anyway. But goodness, enough about Ace.” The man stuck out his hand, the same he had offered to help Emily up, and said “Charles Krane, I live next door.” He nodded over his shoulder to a two-story brick home that was a bit smaller than the home the Anderson family was moving into.

Drew shook the man’s hand. “Drew Anderson. Just moved here from upstate. This is my daughter Emily. My wife, Marcy, and son, Johnny, are inside unpacking.”

The two adults continued a firm handshake and Charles Krane smiled widely. “Nice to meet you, Drew. Welcome to the neighborhood. Where are you working?”

As the two men launched into boring grown-up conversation, Emily leaned down to pet Ace on the head, ruffling the dog’s thick fur in her fingers, but she was really staring up at Charles Krane. Juxtaposed next to her father she could see how tall the man really was, at least six-foot-six if she had to guess, and she’d seen the way his forearms rippled as he’d shaken her father’s hand. Strong, she thought, in a wiry kind of way. His skin was bronzed, probably from outdoor yard work, or numerous rounds of golf, and sitting just above two green eyes was a head of blond hair, neatly parted and combed to the side. If Charles Krane had been wearing chinos and a cardigan instead of running shorts and a t-shirt, he could have probably passed for a model in one of those clothing magazines her mother got in the mail. Eddie Bauer, maybe.

She tuned her ears back into the conversation. “—once we get settled in we’ll have to have you and your wife over for a cookout one evening,” her dad was telling Charles.

“I’d like that,” Charles said. “Only it’ll just be Ace and me, I’m not married.” He held up his left hand and displayed the lack of wedding band.

Emily saw her dad’s face redden. “Geez, I’m sorry. I guess I just assumed… you know what they say about assuming.”

Charles just chuckled and waved him off. “No problem, really. Sure you don’t need any help unpacking? I can come back over once I walk Ace.”

Drew shook his head. “No, we’re fine. Just some more boxes and then we’ll call it a day. The movers took care of all the heavy lifting of the furniture, thank God. Don’t know how they did it as hot as it is today.”

Goodbyes were exchanged, Charles apologized to Emily once more for Ace’s rude behavior, and then the man and dog were off down the sidewalk, disappearing around the block.

Emily retrieved the box she’d been carrying from the lawn and carried it inside to her mother. She hoped nothing had broken.

***

The Andersons had been living in their new house for a full month before the phone rang for the first time.

Emily had adjusted to her new school quickly and had already made a couple of friends whom she had begun hanging out with regularly after school. One of the girls was on the basketball team and Emily was thankful she wouldn’t be completely alone when tryouts started later in the fall. There was also the boy in her math class who was constantly smiling at her and often hung back as class was dismissed to make sure he got the chance to walk with her down the hall before they separated to head to their next class. Her friends told Emily the boy had a crush on her. Emily’s reaction was the same every time: a quick blush and a change of topic. Truth was, she had a crush on him too. His name was Martin, but everybody called him Marty. Like the guy from Back to the Future, which Emily thought was kind of neat, in a totally geeky sort of way. It was one of her dad’s favorite movies.

As far as the house was concerned, most all of the boxes had been unpacked, only a few still remained full and had been stowed away in an empty bedroom that Marcy and Drew were still deciding what to do with. Marcy wanted another guest bedroom so both of their in-laws could visit at the same time during the holidays if necessary. Drew was lobbying for a study in hopes that come holiday time he’d have the pleasure of putting Marcy’s parents up in a hotel. That would make for a very Merry Christmas, indeed, he thought.

Johnny rolled with the punches, as nine-year-olds are wont to do, and spent most of his free time at home in his room playing video games or, when Drew and Marcy made him go outside and play, shooting invisible guns at imaginary foes, no doubt saving the planet time and time again from evil forces from the far reaches of the galaxy.

It was nearly October and the days were growing shorter. Emily had finished shooting a hundred free-throws after dinner in the portable hoop her dad had purchased and set up for her, and then showered and retired to her room for a little bit of English homework and then a quick episode of something on Netflix before she went to bed. It was a nightly routine that worked well for her, and as the credits rolled on the screen of her computer later on, she was almost completely asleep.

The shrill ringing of the telephone woke her some time later. At first the noise was soft, very faint, like it was coming from somewhere very far away. Emily had been dreaming she was in math class, that she and Marty had devised a system of knocks to somehow relay each other the answers to the test. As the were knocking and giggling to each other in the dream, she heard the ringing, like maybe it’d been coming from somewhere down the hallway of the school. Maybe the Administration Office. But no, the office was on the other side of—

The ringing got louder and Emily’s eyes opened. Her laptop was next to her on the bed;the bright red background from the Netflix website displayed. Her bedside lamp was on a timer, and had shut off shortly after she’d fallen asleep. The ring came again. It was definitely a telephone ringing, but she knew quickly it wasn’t her own cell phone. Her ringtone was the theme-music to her favorite TV show, and the noise she was hearing was an old-fashioned bell-type ring you hear on most American house phones. She swiveled her laptop around, letting the red glow from the screen illuminate her room slightly, as if being able to see might help her hear the noise more clearly.

The phone rang twice more and then stopped mid-ring during the next attempt. Emily waited, still half asleep. Heard nothing. Mom or Dad must have answered it, she thought as she fell back onto her pillow, letting sleep overtake her again.

It wasn’t until the next morning on the bus and halfway to school that she remembered the phone ringing from the night before. And now, fully awake and her mind spinning at its normal operating speed, she also remembered something else: Like an increasingly large number of American homes in the twenty-first century, the Andersons relied solely on their cell phones. Even nine-year-old Johnny had one.

They had no landline telephone in the house that could have been making the ringing noise she’d heard.

***

After school Emily went to Open Gym for a quick shoot-around with some of the other girls who would all be trying to outdo each other the following week once tryouts started. Emily wasn’t worried about making the team. She’d been to a few other of the shoot-arounds and knew her skillset and athleticism were surpassed by none. Still, she was the new girl, and the need to prove herself weighed heavy.

A friend’s mother dropped her off at home and Emily found Marcy in the kitchen making dinner. “Go get cleaned up,” her mother yelled as Emily bounded up the creaking staircase. “Dinner’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. Tell your brother, too!”

Johnny’s room was exactly where Emily had been headed in the first place. She tossed her backpack and gym bag into her bedroom and then quickly made her way down the hall to Johnny’s room.

Emily and Johnny had the entire upstairs to themselves. One of the previous owners had renovated the downstairs of the home, and turned what might have once been a large dining room or other living area into an extremely spacious master-bedroom/bath combo. Emily, even though she felt she liked her parents more than most of her friends liked their own, was fifteen and diving head-first into the period of her life where parents become more and more of an embarrassment and invaders of privacy—she liked the isolation of living on different floors.

She knocked twice quickly on Johnny’s bedroom door—a courtesy her brother almost always failed to reciprocate—and heard the digital sounds of a video game from inside the room, and opened the door. Johnny was sitting on the floor, his back resting against the foot of his bed, his eyes glued to the television screen in front of him as his thumbs and fingers danced across the buttons on the controller he held expertly in his tiny hands. “Hey,” Emily said, taking two steps inside the room and stopping, waiting for a response.

“What?” was all she got in return, her brother’s eyes never leaving the screen.

Emily was familiar with this particular song and dance. “Think you could pause that for a second. Please.”

Her brother sighed, as if she’d interrupted not an insignificant video game, but research on a college thesis. Still, he paused the game and turned his head enough to see her. His mop of black hair hung down into his eyes and Emily wondered how he managed to see the television with it like that. “First, mom says dinner is in fifteen minutes, so please don’t make her yell for you three times like usual.” Johnny rolled his eyes. “Second, I wanted to ask you something. Something about last night.” Johnny waited impassively, but even at nine-years-old he sensed the shift in his big sister’s voice. Emily took another step closer and then squatted down next to her brother. “Last night, did you… hear a phone ring?”

Johnny, thinking his sister was trying to get him in trouble for talking or playing on his cell phone when he was supposed to be in bed asleep, got defensive. “No way! I turn my phone off every night before I go to bed, just like mom and dad told me to do. It wasn’t me!”

“Shhhhh,” Emily held up a hand to quiet him. “I know, I know. It wasn’t a cell phone, at least I don’t think so. It sounded like a house phone, you know, like one that used to be on the walls a long time ago.” She realized then that Johnny was so young he might not actually know what she was talking about. “You know, the old kind that when it rang it sounded like bells jingling rapidly.”

Johnny just stared at her, but he did shake some of the hair out of his eyes.

“It sounded like it was coming from down the hall from my room. Like, from this direction. It woke me up, Johnny. Didn’t you hear it?”

Johnny hit a button on the controller and resumed his video game. “I didn’t hear anything. Really.” And that was that.

As Emily made her way back to her bedroom to change her clothes—she decided she’d shower later—she almost convinced herself that if Johnny hadn’t heard the ringing noise last night, then maybe it hadn’t actually happened. They were both heavy sleepers, she and her brother, so it would stand to reason that if the ringing was loud enough to wake one of them, it would have awakened the other sibling as well. Maybe she’d just dreamed the whole thing, one of those dreams where you think you’re awake but really just wake up from one dream and jump straight into another.

She almost convinced herself. But not quite.

***

Even though it was fall and the weather had long since begun calling for long-sleeved shirts and the occasional light jacket in the mornings and evenings, Drew Anderson had promised his neighbor a cookout and so he was sure to deliver. It was a Saturday, a little after 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and with a college football game forgotten on the television inside, Drew and Marcy hosted their neighbor, his dog Ace, Emily and Johnny and one friend each for the two of them, to a delicious meal of grilled burgers and dogs, baked beans, homemade potato- and macaroni salad, with chocolate chip cookies (Emily had helped with the cookies) for dessert. Charles Krane had contributed with banana pudding he had made himself, and a can of meaty-looking dog food he said he only gave Ace on special occasions. They had all eaten well—Ace devoured his special treat before Charles could hardly get it out of the can and into the bowl—and then the adults lounged comfortably on the back patio, sipping coffee and chatting while the sun slowly faded away and the night air began to move in, bringing along the chill. Johnny and his friend had disappeared into the house, presumably to play video games in Johnny’s room. Emily and her friend from the basketball team (Emily did make the team, cruising through try-outs and making a good run at a starting position) stayed outside with the adults, although they huddled together in the lounge swing at the far end of the patio, within earshot of the adults but in their own world. Emily clutched a mug of coffee herself. She didn’t much care for the taste, but she liked the warmth and caffeine. A little sugar and cream helped.

The adults all laughed loudly and Emily turned her attention away from her friend and eyed the group of them. Her mother was wiping tears from her eyes, and holding her stomach. “Charles, that’s too funny! Tell me, why’s such a charming man like you still single? There’s never been a Mrs. Krane?”

Emily could see from clear across the patio the instant shift in Charles’ face, the way the bright smile he’d been broadcasting quickly dimmed and vanished for an instant. He looked away then, too. Caught Emily looking on. Shit, she thought. Don’t stare. But a split-second later, Charles Krane was back to his true form. The smile splashed across his face and he retorted something clever to the group. They all laughed again, and while Emily was glad things had quickly gone back to normal—Am I the only one who even noticed the way he changed just then?—she suggested to her friend that they go inside and watch some television.

They’d made it as far as the patio door. Emily had her free hand on the handle, in fact, when Charles Krane called out, “Did our carrying on out here chase you away?”

Emily turned around, just like her body, her mind was quick, and she had a response locked and loaded, but the look on Charles’ face set her back a moment. The bright smile was still there, the teeth briefly reminding her of the clown’s mouth at the putt-putt course, but his eyes betrayed all pleasant emotion. He stared at her expectantly; she watched his eyes dance down her body, a quick glimpse, and then return to her own gaze. “Uh, we,” Emily stammered. “We’re getting cold. Thought we’d watch some TV.”

His eyes softened, the smile seemed less frightening. “Well, it was a pleasure seeing you this evening. Great job on the cookies. Be sure and let me know when your first home game is. Your dad here’s been telling me what a star player you are, I’d love to see it for myself.”

Emily gave her best smile and said, “Sure thing,” and then went inside.

Marcy Anderson was a trusting person for the most part, maybe too much if you were to ask Drew about it. But despite her immense liking of their neighbor Charles, she hadn’t been oblivious to the way his eyes looked up and down Emily’s body as he’d spoken to her.

She might be trusting, but when it came to the well-being of her children she could be a nightmare at your doorstep.

As she was trying to decide whether she was overreacting, maybe reading too much into something harmless, Charles rose from his seat and stretched his back. “Marcy, Drew, thanks so much for having me over. You know, the past neighbors never did anything so kind. Glad to see some decent people living in this great house here. It deserves it.

Drew thought somebody saying a house deserved something wasn’t quite the oddest thing he’d ever heard, but it was close. Still, he shook Charles’ hand and watched as he gave Marcy a quick peck on the cheek. Then Charles scooped up Ace’s food and water bowl from the patio and led his dog back across to his own house.

Marcy and Drew cleaned up the mess, not bothering to ask the children, wanting not to spoil the pleasant evening they’d all had with groans and statements of displeasure. Sometimes it was just easier to do the job themselves.

***

The school had passed out the flyer along with all the other million and a half forms and lists that had been sent home with Johnny on his first day of elementary school. He’d tossed the thick packet of paper onto the counter as he came inside and then raided the fridge for a snack. Marcy had saved the flyer and tucked it away in the office, thinking that since they were in a new neighborhood it would be a good idea. She’d forgotten all about it until now.

She had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapped up tightly in her thick winter robe, comfortable slippers on her feet, towel wrapped around her head. Sitting in the rolling-chair in her and Drew’s office, she woke the computer from sleep and pulled up the web-browser, typing in the address from the flyer, double checking it, then pressing enter.

It was an easy enough process: she typed in her address and the website returned all registered sex offenders within a predetermined radius. Marcy set her scope to twenty-five miles, but she was really only curious about the man whose home was maybe a hundred feet away from her own.

Charles Krane was not on the list the website provided. Her relief washed over her and the pleasant feeling about the evening’s cookout returned to her, temporarily lost in her suspicion. She smiled at the screen, seeing no offenders at all in her twenty-five mile scope, and then clicked to close the browser.

But…

Marcy, leave it alone. He’s not on the list, he’s safe. She tried to make herself get up and leave the room. She wanted to take her robe off and slide into bed next to Drew. Wanted him to take her tonight. It’d been a while. She’d been putting out the signals all evening, and she was pretty sure he’d been picking them up. She swiveled in the chair, doing a one-eighty, ready to get up and leave the office. But we don’t even know anything about him. I hardly even see him leave the house except when he walks Ace. The chair swiveled back around, completing the three-sixty, and she pulled up Google, typed in Charles Krane, thought about it, added in their city and state to narrow down the search. Pressed enter.

The first result on the search page’s list made her sit up in the chair. She clicked, started to read.

***

Emily’s friend had gone home, having to be up early in the morning for Church with her family. So, Emily listened to the noises of Johnny and his pal coming through the walls of the bathroom positioned in between her and her brother’s rooms—lots of explosions and firing of what sounded like very large and very futuristic weapons, followed by cheers and laughs from the kids. She couldn’t help but smile as she washed her face. She was only fifteen, but she already missed the carefree days of being a child. Johnny’s life seemed so simple: wake, eat, school, eat, video games. Repeat. He wasn’t much interested in basketball, but he did play soccer the past two years. But then again, what child’s parents don’t sign them up for soccer—willingly or unwillingly—at some point in their lives?

Emily could at times be furiously irritated with her brother, but she couldn’t help but envy his innocence. She splashed her face with warm water, washing off the rest of the white residue from her face wash, patted her face dry with the towel, then started to brush her teeth. As she was rinsing her mouth out with cold water from the cup on the edge of the sink, the phone started to ring.

Like most teenagers, Emily went nearly everywhere with her phone, never leaving it behind to miss a potential text, tweet, Facebook update, or maybe even an actual phone call. She glanced at it in the mirror, seeing it sitting on top of the toilet tank, where she always put it while in the bathroom. The screen wasn’t lit up, there was no vibration rumbling throughout the porcelain of the commode. But she wasn’t silly, she knew deep down it wasn’t her phone making the noise. She had no ringtone or alert sound that sounded like this. The sound was of bells ringing, like a house phone. The type of phone she knew was not to be found anywhere in the Anderson family’s home.

The ringing was much louder than it had been the night before when she’d heard it. That night as she sat up in her bed she’d been certain the ringing had been coming from down the hall. As the phone rang again (I swear it gets louder with each ring!), Emily was convinced the ringing was coming from inside the bathroom, right where she was standing. It echoed off the tiled walls of the open shower stall and seemed to engulf her in the tiny closed space.

She closed her eyes tightly and tried to use her ears to pinpoint from where the noise was coming. She stood, her back now to the sink, facing the shower stall and the toilet, her eyelids jammed shut, and listened. At first the shrill ringing of the bells continued to swarm all around her, but as she took a few slow deep breaths and tried to force all thoughts from her mind, focusing only on the ringing, she started to isolate the direction she thought…

Her eyes shot open and she took a quick step towards the toilet. The ringing got louder still. She was walking towards the source of the noise.  She stared at the wall above the toilet, and that’s when she saw it, the small wooden panel, painted over the same color as the rest of the bathroom. She’d seen the panel before, it was roughly two feet by two feet, and secured with a small metallic clasp. She’d assumed it was some sort of access panel in order to get to some part of the house’s plumbing or electrical system. She’d dismissed it as irrelevant to anything pertaining to her daily life and had forgotten it since.

Now, standing with her legs straddling the bowl of the toilet, she pressed the palm of her hand flat against the wooden panel, waited for the phone to ring again. She guessed the phone had rung five or six times since it began, and she tried hard to remember how many times the ringing had occurred that first night before it stopped, unanswered. Maybe she’d missed it again.

Then the ringing echoed once more through the bathroom and Emily felt a tiny vibration in her hand against the wood. Her heart starting beating harder in her chest and she quickly unclasped the metal securer and pulled the panel from the wall.

Inside was no sign of pipes, ducts, or wires, but a small shelf built into the interior of the wall. The bottom was covered in a thick layer of dust, and Emily counted at least seven withered and dried corpses of spiders resting permanently in the filth. Emily was terrified of spiders, but didn’t even give their dead bodies a second glance, because sitting in the middle of the shelf, looking like a great and golden pyramid among a throng of tiny dead Egyptians in a dusty desert, was a brass telephone. The base was bulky and rounded, a small pedestal type arm rising from the center held a long receiver with two large bell-shaped ends for the ear- and mouthpiece. A black coiled cord connected to two parts.

When Emily was younger, the Anderson family had had landline telephones. The oldest and ugliest of which had been mounted on the wall of the kitchen of their old home before eventually being replaced with a more modern, cordless variety. This phone looked nothing like the phone she remembered. She’d only seen phones like the one sitting in front of her in old movies; the type of devices that had stopped being produced long before Emily was even alive.

The phone rang again, startling Emily as the noise was intensified without the muffling of the wooden panel. Curious, and growing irritated at the ringing noise, Emily shot her arm out and picked up the heavy receiver.“Hello?”

***

1976

The scene next door had been an absolute bloodbath. Buck Harris hadn’t seen anything quite like it during his ten years as a homicide detective. He’d seen some pretty bad stuff, grisly enough to make you push away your steak dinner if you tried to eat too soon after, but nothing quite like what was still waiting to be cleaned up inside the walls of the house next door. I wonder which of their intestines was snaked around staircase bannister? Looked like some sort of Satanic Christmas garland. He almost chuckled at his simile—those ten years on the job helped you to develop a sense of humor, otherwise you’d go mad—but just then his partner caught up with him on the sidewalk, sweat dripping down his face despite the chilly night air.

“Christ, Buck. Have you ever?”

Jim was new to the homicide group, a young gun with enough brains for the both of them, and the energy to boot, but he was still getting used to looking death in the eye, having it splayed around him in sickening fashion. Buck was surprised how well the rookie had handled himself inside the house, purely professional and not acting out of the norm, despite the maze of carnage they’d walked through. He wanted to talk with Jim, wanted to say that, no, he hadn’t ever. He wanted to have a normal conversation with a human being worse than he’d ever wanted to before, just to do anything normal to remind him he was alive and try and dismiss some of the images he feared were now going to haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. But it wasn’t time yet, wasn’t time to get buddy-buddy. They still had the other crime scene to go over. Buck prayed it wasn’t as bad as the first.

Ballsy, Buck thought. Murder two families in the same night, right next to each other. No, Jim. I sure as hell ain’t ever.

“You ready to go into funhouse number two?” he asked Jim, already making his way further up the sidewalk and turning up the driveway. The blue lights from his police car flashed against the red brick of the house they were about to enter. He looked up to the sky and saw there were no stars. Gloomy weather for a horrific night. The patrol cops had done a great job of securing the area and getting the nosy and concerned neighbors back into their homes where they were currently being calmed and questioned for any bit of information that may help in the investigation.

A strong gust of wind blew through him and along with it came Jim at his side. The two men turned and looked at each other, nodded, and walked up the front stoop and inside the home.

All the lights in the house had been turned on by the first team that had arrived on-scene. This helped to brighten the rooms, but did nothing to help dampen the stench of death. The front door opened into a small foyer with a den to the left. Buck went here first, Jim followed.

“Mother of God,” Jim whispered, turning his head for a moment and crossing himself. Buck stepped closer. The male victim (Caucasian, blond hair, maybe six-two, one-ninety, age: late thirties) was seated comfortable in a reclining chair wearing pajama pants and a white shirt, the leg rest out and his legs stretched atop it. Both his arms rested on their respective armrests, hands balled into fists. His back was ramrod straight, head resting comfortably. His throat had been slashed, clumsily from the looks of the jagged gash across the man’s neck, and blood had gushed and then pooled in a dark puddle in his own lap. Another stab wound was apparent in the center of the man’s abdomen. At least his intestines are still inside, Buck noted.

“Christ almighty, where are her eyes, Buck?”

Buck turned, he’d been so fixated on the male corpse he hadn’t yet assessed the second body. On the couch next to the reclining chair, a female victim (Caucasian, brown hair, five-nine, one-thirty, age: mid-thirties) was stretched out as if taking a midday nap. Her nightgown was dissected and shredded with so many slashes and stab wounds Buck could only pray she’d died quickly, or was maybe dead before the mutilation could begin. Blood dripped off the edge of the couch cushions and dotted the carpet. He tried not to step in it. He looked to the woman’s face, the cause of Jim’s concern.

It reminded him of a special effect in a movie, not because it looked fake, but because as he’d already ascertained from the first house, he’d never seen anything quite like this before in reality. Both the woman’s eye-sockets were empty, dark, bloody holes in the skull that looked oddly sunken and large without their usual pupil and iris filling them. Some sort of yellow fluid had dripped and then dried on the woman’s cheeks. It looked like snot. The blood dried along side it contrasted in color.

“Where are they, Buck?” Jim said again,

Maybe another thing ten years on this job will do to you is give you one hell of sick imagination. You work enough crime scenes where people have been killed and their bodies broken and discarded, you find yourself thinking outside the box much more quickly, searching for clues in places most overlook. Buck felt something lurch in his stomach, turned his head and looked back to the male victim’s clutched fists resting on the armrests of the reclining chair. He stood and walked over to the dead man. He pulled a latex glove from his pocket and slid it on.

“Buck? What are you doing?”

Buck raised a finger, told Jim to wait. Then he reached down and gently worked to unclasp the fingers of the man’s dead fist. Touching dead people might have gotten easier for Buck over the years, but he still never enjoyed it. He liked to look and analyze. Touching wasn’t his thing.

When he’d managed to extend the first three fingers on the man’s hand, his sought-after item dropped from the loosened grip like a prize from one of those nickel vending machines.

One of the woman’s half collapsed eyeballs hit the carpet almost noiselessly, and rolled a quarter rotation before stopping, staring up at Buck.

Buck looked at Jim. The rookie stayed quiet, but Buck thought he didn’t look so good in the face, like maybe he was going to be sick. “Let’s sweep the rest of the house,” he said, and turned his partner to leave the den.

There were no more victims on the first floor so the two men headed up the steps, one behind the other and then stopped on the landing, staring down a carpeted hallway with one long and crimson smear stretching three quarters of the way down before stopping at a door and disappearing. The two men followed their red trail and then slowly opened the door where the blood disappeared under.

Buck took the lead, stopping in the open doorway and looking around before he let Jim squeeze in beside him. It was a girl’s room;the bed sheets and comforter on the twin bed in the corner a pleasing yellow. A small table with attached mirror contained scattered bottles of perfume and makeup. A good-looking young man whom Buck did not recognize smiled shyly from his place on the wall, the poster tacked up with white thumbtacks into the drywall. A record player sat on a dresser against the wall. Buck saw the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac among the scattered vinyl.

The girl’s body (Caucasian, blond hair, five-six, one-ten, maybe fifteen or sixteen) lied in the middle of the bedroom floor, the trail of blood leading their eyes directly to her and then stopping beneath her lifeless form. She was wearing a nightgown similar to the one the woman downstairs on the couch had been. She’s very pretty, Buck thought. And she was, or at least had been, before somebody had used her as a practice jack-o-lantern, carving her up in a fashion that Buck was growing all too tired of seeing tonight.

Christ. The family next door—mom, dad, two daughters—and now these three… that’s seven bodies slaughtered in one damn night. I don’t think I want to live in this world anymore.

“Buck, look at this.” Jim’s voice snapped Buck out of his self-reflection. The other man was bent down next to the dead girl’s body, pointing.

“Whatcha got?” Buck asked, stepping closer.

“It’s a… tube of lipstick. The cap’s off and laying next to it. Looks like somebody just dropped it here next to her.”

Buck crinkled his brow and then looked at the young girl’s face. What the hell?

Sure enough, somebody had used the lipstick to coat the girl’s lips. Whoever it had been was inexperienced at the task, for the light shade of reddish-pink was smeared not only on the lips, but spilled onto the chin and the sides of her cheeks. Why bother? Buck wondered.

“What about the bear?” Jim asked.

Under the girl’s left arm was tucked a small stuffed teddy bear, its brown fur matted with blood and dirty from age. It seemed to reason to Buck that somebody who was more than likely fighting for their life, somebody who’d been stabbed repeatedly and then dragged down a hallway would have a hard time holding onto a stuffed toy bear. “Somebody put it there,” he said, standing up, “That and the lipstick.”

“But why would they do all that?” Jim stood as well, wiping sweat from his forehead. “None of the other victims had any, uh, special considerations. What made her so special?”

“Are we sure about that? Maybe we need to go back and look at the other girls next door.” Buck could see the dread his words caused in Jim’s face. “We might have—“

He heard something from down the hall. “What?” Jim started to ask. Buck held up a hand to silence him. “Shhhh.”

He turned and looked out the open doorway. Listened. The noise came again, muffled yet distinct this time, now that he was prepared. “You hear that?” He asked Jim. But Jim was already moving. The dead bother him a little still, but he’s all for saving the living. The noise they heard had been a child crying.

Buck followed Jim out into the hall and continued to follow the sound of the sobs. Jim stopped abruptly and Buck nearly collided with him. Would have if the other man hadn’t quickly darted into a room to his right. Buck followed.

They were standing in the bathroom, the bright bulbs above the sink and mirror doing its best to illuminate the sweat and oil on their skin. The crying sound continued, was louder now, but Buck saw nobody. Jim turned and ripped open the pea-green shower curtain with one mighty yank, unveiling the source of the crying.

The boy’s body was tall, looked strong, but incredibly lanky and uncoordinated from Buck’s first impression, giving away his true age. That kid’s ten years old if he’s lucky, Buck thought. The child was sitting on his knees in the bathtub, his large but delicate hands covering his ears as he continued to cry. He was wearing flannel pajamas and the blood that stained them was also splattered against the porcelain floor of the bathtub. His blond hair was matted with the stuff too. He looked up at the two men with red, tear-filled eyes.

“Son, are you hurt? Where’s the blood coming from?” Buck spoke loudly and clearly. If the blood belonged to the kid, they needed to get him medical attention immediately. “Son, can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

The boy only continued to stare for another couple of seconds, then he took two deep breaths, trying to calm himself it seemed, and said with tears still falling, “They’re all dead. All of them. Even Sissy.”

Growing less concerned that the boy had sustained any injuries himself—Did he hide in the shower the whole time?—Buck  decided to get the most information he could while the kid’s mind still might have fresh images. “Son, did you see who did it? Did you see who killed Sissy?”

The boy let out a long, unexpected wail, tears pouring fast. Then he wiped his nose with the back of his pajama arm and whispered, as if he were talking to himself. “I tried to make her pretty again. I tried but I’m no good with makeup. And I gave her Bernie.”

He did it. Christ, he’s the one who used the lipstick and put the bear under the girl’s arm.

“Son, did you hear me? Did you see who did this? How did you stay safe? Did you hide here?”

The boy was quiet for a long time, his sobbing was subsiding some, and he suddenly looked very tired. Then he looked at Buck. “I tried to stop it, but now they’re all dead.”

Buck tried a few more times to get some information from the boy in the tub while Jim went back outside to find an officer to come and take care of their only survivor. With no luck with his line of questioning, Buck asked a question he figured the boy had to answer, a question every young person is taught to answer when an officer of the law asks you. “Son, what’s your name?”

The boy, large but looking incredibly fragile, wiped his nose one more time with the back of his arm, sniffled, and said, “My name’s Chuck.”

***

The towel was still wrapped around Marcy’s head, even though her hair had dried long ago. She was pacing back and forth across the bedroom floor in front of Drew as he sat on the edge of their bed, wearing just a pair of boxer shorts and reading the print outs of the news articles she’d pulled off the Internet. She waited until she saw he’d finished reading the last page and then couldn’t help herself any longer. “My God, Drew, his entire family was murdered in front of him—and the neighbors don’t forget—when he was only nine years old. Nine! He was Johnny’s age for goodness sake.” She pointed upstairs as she said this, her mind’s finger landing on Johnny asleep in his bed.  “Can you imagine what that must have been like, how traumatizing that all must have been for him? That poor, poor man.” Marcy turned and walked across the room, peeking through the blinds at Charles Krane’s house next door. “To be as charming and outgoing as he is, you’d just think he’d be… different, after having to deal with all that. To be haunted by those memories.”

Drew shuffled the papers and stacked them neatly on the bedside table. “It was a long time ago, Marcy. Time heals.”

“I wonder if his aunt and uncle are still alive. The ones who raised him.” The newspapers had kept up with the life of little Chuck (Charles) Krane for another two years after his family’s murder, giving their small New Hampshire community constant updates on the boy’s status right along with any new findings in the murder investigation. Little Chuck was a local celebrity in the worst possible way. From what Marcy could find online, the murderer had never been caught. On top of that, the police seemed to only spin tires in the investigation before it eventually fizzled out as another unsolved. The town was outraged, city officials (including the Sheriff) were chastised and quickly replaced come election time. Letting a murder of such a large magnitude go unsolved was unacceptable in the eyes of voters. It left them all feeling afraid.

“I can’t believe he moved back into that house,” Marcy said, turning from the window and shuddering at the thought of the grisly scene that had hidden behind its walls all those years ago. “I mean, I know he inherited it and all, but… my god, to live in a house where your entire family was slain. How does he walk through the rooms and not picture the bodies where they were found?”

Drew was quiet for a full minute before he spoke. “About that, Marcy…” he knew his wife hadn’t made the connection yet, had been too caught up in Charles’ story to focus on the other side of things. “The neighbors who were murdered too, you realize that we’re living in their house, right?”

***

“Hello? Who is this?” It was a girl’s voice coming through the phone and finding its way into Emily’s ear. The voice was young and full of energy. It sounded like it belonged to a teenager, someone close to Emily’s age.

Emily had been so perplexed by the ringing phone on the little shelf cut into the wall above her toilet that she’d never actually stopped to think about whether answering it was a good idea. And now that she had answered it, she realized she wasn’t prepared to actually hear anybody’s voice on the other end. Her head spun in crazy directions, trying to make some rational sense about what was happening, who she might be talking to. “Uh…Hi, my name’s Emily. Who’s this?”

“This is Susan,” the voice answered. “Are you the same person who tried to call the other night?”

Emily turned around slowly, the long coiled cord that connected the receiver to the base of the phone wrapped around her like a snake, and she crinkled her brow in confusion, looking at her own face in the mirror. “I, uh… no. I’ve never tried to call you.” And then she thought about it. She remembered the nighttime ringing she’d heard a few days past that until this very moment she’d nearly convinced herself had been a dream. “But, now that you mention it,” she continued, “somebody did try to call me the other night. Was that… you?”

The other end of the line was quiet for a beat, Emily thought perhaps her mystery caller had hung up. Then the voice came across the line again, carrying with it a tiny bit of static. “What night was this?”

Emily closed her eyes and thought hard. Then she picked up her iPhone from atop the toilet tank and pulled up the calendar, counted back the days. “Two weeks ago yesterday. It was really late, like, the middle of the night.”

There was laughter from the other end, the laugh of a young girl who’d just become instantly delighted with something. “That’s the same night! I woke up and heard this ringing, it just kept going and going and going, you know? I got up and went down the hall to the bathroom, because, like, that’s where it seemed to be coming from. But then right as I got to the door, it stopped. I didn’t hear it again until just now. If I hadn’t have just gotten out of the shower, I probably wouldn’t have heard it. Definitely wouldn’t have found the phone.”

Emily’s heart did something funny. “Wait… What do you mean, ‘Find the phone?’ Are you not talking to me on, like, a normal phone… in your house?”

“No! It’s so weird! There’s this, like, shelf or something built into the wall behind my toilet. There’s a little hidden door with a clasp I’d never really paid any attention to before. I opened it and, well, there was this phone, just ringing off the hook.”

Emily was having a hard time understanding what she was hearing. The words computed correctly, but she had no idea what any of it meant. “The exact same thing just happened to me,” she said to the girl on the other end. “Identical, in fact. My phone was ringing too, like you were the one who called me.”

There was more laughter from the other end of the line. One thing was for sure,Susan found this whole thing to be a heck of a lot more entertaining than Emily did. While Emily’s brain tried to work out some sort of twisted puzzle, Susan’s seemed to be registering some sort of hilarious practical joke.

“So, if neither of us actually called one another,” Emily started, “then how did the phones start to ring?”

Susan made a long and drawn out noise, like she was thinking. “Hmmmmmmm. You know that’s a good question. Here, why don’t we both hang up, and then I’ll pick up the phone and try and call you. What’s your number?”

Emily glanced down at the phone, thinking, ridiculously, that maybe the phone number would be stuck on the front like a pay phone’s used to be. That was when she realized the phone had no mechanism for dialing numbers; no punch button keys, no rotary wheel. Nothing. Just a blank base and the cradle. “Um, there’s no numbers on the phone.”

Susan’s now distinctive laugh was heard again. “Well, maybe they’re just directly connected somehow. Okay, hang up on three and then I’ll count to five and pick up the phone.”

Before Emily could even form a thought for objection, Susan counted quickly to three and hung up. Confused and not knowing what other action to take, Emily replaced her own receiver back into its cradle and started to count out loud in the bathroom. “One… two… three… four…”

The phone started to ring, and even though she was expecting it, the shrill noise caused Emily to jump back a step. She quickly picked up the phone, wanting to stop the ringing as quickly as possible. “Susan?”

“Oh good! You’re still there. I’m sorry it took so long. My mom knocked on the door and wanted to know what I was doing. I think she thinks I’m smoking. Oh well, I had to go downstairs with her and watch a television program just to make her think, you know, I’m like, normal or whatever. That I wasn’t getting into anything ‘inappropriate’ up here.” She followed this up with a laugh.

Emily’s confusion only intensified. “Wait… Susan, how long did it take you to call me back?”

“Ummmmm… maybe almost an hour.”

Emily didn’t even try to explain the time difference to the strange girl she was talking to. Instead she asked the question that was suddenly white-hot on her mind. “Susan, where are you calling from?”

“I told you, my bathroom.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Where do you live? What’s your address?”

Susan rattled off the house number and street address. Emily sat down hard on the toilet, the porcelain rattling beneath her. “And that’s in New Hampshire?” she asked, just to close up any opening of doubt.

“Yep. Sure is. Where do you live?” Susan asked. Her voice sounded like she was making a new best friend.

Emily took a deep breath and, while she had no way of understanding the words she was about to use, knew they were the only answer she had. “I live in the same house you do.”

Susan, for once, didn’t respond with a laugh. Instead she was quiet for a minute. When she finally spoke again, she almost sounded frightened. “Is that supposed to be a joke?” she asked.

“Susan, I feel like asking you the exact same thing. I don’t have any idea what’s going on here.” Emily knew that two people could not exist in the exact same time and space and yet be completely oblivious to each other. She knew that both she and Susan could both not be standing in the bathroom of the same address and talking on the same phone to eachother. It was impossible. Then she got an idea.

“Hey, what’s your cell phone number? I’ll try calling you from my iPhone.”

“Uh, what’s an iPhone?”

Emily was about to laugh, about to mimic the suddenly-irritating laugh of Susan’s, and ask sarcastically, What, are you from the past or something? But then fear caused the words to catch in her throat. Instead, she offered, almost in a whisper, “Susan, what year is it?”

This time Susan did laugh. “Come on silly, how do you not know what year it is?”

Emily didn’t answer.

“Fine,” Susan said. “It’s 1976.”

***

Marcy Anderson was waiting in the lobby of the high school gymnasium, occasionally peeking through the windows of the large closed doors that were currently separating the area she was waiting in from the basketball court where Emily’s team was finishing up their practice. At least she hoped they were finishing up. By her watch’s time, they’d already run twenty minutes over the scheduled practice time. The first game of their season was this coming Friday, so Marcy figured the coach—a very charming man, if not particularly good looking—wanted to make sure his team was ready. Still, game or no game, dinner in the Anderson household needed to be started soon, or it’d have to be take-out.

Marcy sighed a little as she watched the coach line the girls up for another drill. She wandered around the lobby some more, stopping here and there to look into the poorly-lit glass display cases that held the various trophies, awards and game balls of significant value to the school’s athletic history. The girls basketball team had almost no achievements represented—the most recent being a trip to the district championship game nearly fifteen years earlier. Marcy shook her head. Maybe Emily could help turn the team around. Marcy had never played basketball herself, and even after all these years of watching her daughter play the sport she still wasn’t as well-versed as she’d like to be in the sport’s terminology. But, what she did understand, even if she couldn’t quite articulate it, was that Marcy’s teams usually won. And that season after season, coaches and other players’ parents alike often sought after Marcy in the crowd to sing her daughter’s praises. Marcy saw no reason for this year to be any different.

Marcy turned from the basketball trophy case and went to her left, glancing into the gym doors again and seeing bodies still running and balls still bouncing. She made her way to the football display case and stared in. She’d looked at all the cases before, but with her iPhone charging in the car she was without any other form of entertainment. Her eyes read the list of district and regional titles; she tried to read the scribbled names of players that’d autographed the game ball from the school’s only football state championship from 1976. After giving up on the names, she looked to the team photo—a somewhat grainy and color-washed print that lived behind a dusty glass frame. Marcy grinned as she looked over the smiling faces of the young men—now middle-aged and probably with drooping guts and receding hairlines—all standing with their helmets in their hands and jerseys littered with grass and dirt stains. The coaches stood split, some on each side of the boys, the cheerleaders—

Marcy’s eyes froze solid and stared at the cheerleaders, all of whom were on their knees in a neat row in front of the boys, pom-poms neatly resting on the ground in front of each girl. The third girl from the left is who’d caught Marcy’s attention, made her do a double-take. The girl was a bit taller than the others in her group. She had blond hair and a smooth complexion, with high cheekbones accenting an extremely pretty face. The girl possessed a very athletic build, from what Marcy could tell. And her smile…

My God, she looks just like Emily. Not identical of course… but, wow!

Marcy squinted her eyes, nearly pressed her face against the glass wall of the display case, and tried to read the names of the cheerleaders on the tiny printout posted below the framed picture. She was able to make out the word CHEERLEADERS:and then counted over to the third name. She read it.

Her heart thudded hard twice in her chest. A sinking feeling in her stomach.

She read the name again.

Elizabeth Krane.

She closed her eyes and could still see the name printed on the sheets of paper she’d given Drew, the articles about the murders of Charles Krane’s family and his neighbors.

She looked again to the heading above the picture of the football team. 1976 – STATE CHAMPIONS!

1976. That picture of a smiling, beautiful Elizabeth Krane might have been the last picture ever taken of her alive.

Marcy had to look away, no longer wanting to see a picture of a dead girl.

One who’d been viciously murdered.

One who’d looked like Emily.

***

Emily noticed her mom was being particularly quiet during the ride home from school, which was fine with Emily. Not because she didn’t enjoy talking to her mother, but because she was exhausted after the grueling practice. Plus she’d stayed up too late the night before talking to Susan on the phone.

At first, the grounded and realistic part of Emily’s brain had continued to tell her that everything she was experiencing could under no circumstances be reality. Not unless it was a joke. It had to be a joke, right?

So, even though Emily herself was too young and too ill-versed in 1970’s history to really validate any answers, when she’d asked them to Susan, the girl’s responses were fast, sharp and seemed to make complete sense.

Favorite bands? The Eagles, Lynyrd Skyryd, The Doobie Brothers, Bob Dylan.

Favorite TV Show? Little House on the Prairie, Welcome Back, Kotter, Happy Days.

Who’s the President? Ford. But mom and dad think Carter’s going to win the Election. I don’t really understand politics, though. (Laughter)

Emily had asked more questions, tried to talk about and mention things that she knew had only come about in the last decade or so. She used words like “Google” and “App Store” and “email” and “Prius” and “Obama” and was met with silence or confused rebuttals from Susan.

If this is a joke, she thought, it’s a dern good one and this girl has done her homework.

Plus, there was the phone. There was no denying the oddity of the device. It was old and outdated—looked old enough to really have no reason to even still be working—and with no buttons or rotary wheel for dialing, seemed mostly useless. The Andersons had lived in their new house for a few months now, and Emily had only heard the phone ring on two occasions; the night in bed, and last night. Emily had tried to look for the phone cord that had to plug into a wall-jack somewhere, connecting the phone to whatever switchboard routed to the past, and was not as shocked as she would have thought to discover that there was no cord on the phone other than the one connecting the base to the receiver. She tried to rotate, then lift the phone from its little shelf in the wall and found it to be somehow secured firmly to the wood. She couldn’t budge it. Not an inch.

Letting her curiosity win her over, and giving in to the impossible, Emily decided to just go with it—she looked at it as an opportunity to do something nobody else could do; talk with somebody from the past. Even though she was sure soon she’d hear the sound of her alarm on her iPhone waking her up from this absurd dream and then she’d be off to school to tell her friends and laugh about how crazy of an idea it was.

But the alarm sound never came. Emily and Susan fell into comfortable conversation for the better part of the next two hours; two girls of the same age, gossiping and giggling across a gap of over thirty years. Both were fascinated by the other, and both never ran out of questions. It was only when Emily looked at the clock on her phone and saw it was nearly two in the morning that she hastily told Susan she had to go to bed because her basketball coach would kill her if she was dragging at practice the next day.

Emily unbuckled her seatbelt and helped Marcy carry in the dinner they’d stopped to get from the fried-chicken place a few blocks from the school. She and Susan had agreed to try and talk again tonight before they’d hung up the phone and Emily closed the little wooden panel and secured it with the clasp.

Emily was looking forward to talking again with her strange new friend.

But that night as Emily waited in the bathroom playing a game on her phone, the call never came. Emily picked up her receiver and put it to her ear, hearing nothing but the sound of her own blood pumping through her body. With her own call attempt failed, she went to bed.

The phone wouldn’t ring again for another two weeks.

***

Drew Anderson took a half-day off from work because he wanted to get a quick oil change in preparation for a little drive he and the family were taking up to the mountains on Saturday. Plus, he wanted to avoid any potential disasters or disruptions of schedules that would detain him and thus keep him from making it to Emily’s first basketball game of the season. He was excited to see her play with her new team, knowing she’d do great, as usual. But, as usual, he was also so nervous he felt a Prozac might be a good pre-game snack. There was always the nervous buzz in his belly as he drove to the game. It got worse during warm-ups, worse again just before tip-off. The feeling never usually subsided until Emily had scored her first points, which more often than not didn’t take long.

The oil change took less than thirty minutes, being that the auto-shop was not crowded at just a little after two on a Friday afternoon, and the commute back to the Anderson house was pleasant. Drew pulled his car into the driveway, got out, and then stopped midway to the front door. He turned and looked over his shoulder, let his eyes settle on Charles Krane’s house. Marcy and he hadn’t seen much of Charles lately, maybe only two or three times in passing since the cookout a few weeks ago—the same night they learned of the man’s troubled past. Remembering something Charles had said to him, Drew turned around and walked across the short distance of lawn separating the two homes.

He rang the doorbell.

Loud, excited barking thundered from behind the door. Drew smiled. Ace. How ya doin’, fella?

Drew waited a full minute and then tried the bell again, followed it with two quick knocks.

He heard quickened steps on hardwood approaching, then the door opened in a violent jerk.

While it had been brief, Drew saw a look of pure irritation on Charles’ face as he stared down at his unannounced visitor. But then, before the recognition had barely had time to register in Drew’s brain, Charles’ features softened, his eyes brightened, and he smiled that smile of his. “Drew! Good to see you. What brings you by?”

Drew looked down and saw Ace standing behind Charles, tongue out in a goofy grin, trying to push his head between Charles’ leg and the doorframe.

“Well, hadn’t see you around much, thought maybe you’d like to go with Marcy and me to Emily’s basketball game tonight. First one of the season, we’re looking forward to see what the team’s made of.”

Charles’ smile stayed on his face, his eyes stared directly into Drew’s. But he didn’t say a word. Just stood there, as if he hadn’t heard a word Drew had said. Beginning to feel uncomfortable, Drew said, “So… what do you say? Would you like to come?”

Charles took a deep breath, blinked a few times, then said. “No.” Left it at that.

Drew wanted to go home now. He wasn’t sure if what he’d learned about Charles’ past was what making him feel awkward talking to the man, or if Charles really was just being strange this afternoon. “Okay,” Drew said. “Maybe next game.”

He turned to leave.

“It’s just…” Charles started. “I’m going out of town tonight… packing right now, in fact. I’m already behind. I’m sorry if I seemed short with you. It’s just, well, It’s a pretty long trip, going to spend a week with some family upstate. Another game, for sure.”

The dark cloud in Drew’s thoughts began to lighten some. “Okay, sure. Another game.” As Charles waved goodbye and started to close the door, Drew shouted, “Wait!”

The door stopped. Charles’s eyes narrowed.

“Do you want me to get your mail?” Drew asked, trying to be neighborly.

Charles smiled. “Sure, that’d be very helpful. Thank you.” Then he closed the door.

Drew heard the deadbolt slide into place.

***

“I’m telling you, Drew, Charles’ sister looked so much like Emily… I had to look away. It just made me too sad to think that such a pretty young girl could have had her life ended to brutally.”

Emily’s basketball team had won their game by a hefty margin—Emily scored 24 points and had 11 rebounds—and now, tired and full of the celebratory pizza they’d shared as a family, Marcy was recalling her picture discovery to Drew as they got ready for bed.

“First, you’ve got to let these murders go, Marcy. They were a long time ago. Stop fretting about them.” Drew got into bed, picking up the book he was reading from the nightstand, flipping to his bookmark. “Second, I’ve seen that picture. Quite a few times actually, since practices never seem to end on time. I don’t remember a cheerleader looking anything like Emily. Not enough for me to notice, anyway.”

Marcy gave her husband an Are-you-serious? look and then went into the bathroom to wash her face. She splashed the warm water on her face, scrubbed hard with her soap, but couldn’t wash the image of Elizabeth Krane’s smiling face from her memory. She wondered if Emily had seen the picture, had read the name. Drew and Marcy had decided not to tell the kids about what had happened to Charles’ family, and especially not about the murder that’d taken place in the Anderson’s own home. Maybe when Emily was a little older they’d tell her, and with Johnny… well, they’d have to keep him in the dark for a long as they could.

She brushed her teeth and went to join Drew in bed. As she slid under the covers, she remembered one more thing.

“Drew?”

He looked up from his book. “Yes?”

“Did you notice the way Charles looked at Emily the night we had the cookout?”

Drew actually laughed. “What?”

“I’m serious, Drew. When she went inside with her friend after coffee, he… looked at her a way that I didn’t much care for. You know… like… looked her up and down. You know, the way a man will look at a woman when—“

“Marcy,” Drew held up his hand. “I love you more than anything, but you’ve got to come back to earth. What you learned about Charles’ family, and the family that used to live here is affecting your mind. You’ve got to relax. We’re as safe as anybody can be in the world, and Charles… come on. He’s one of the nicest people we’ve met here.”

Marcy sighed, not completely convinced her husband was correct, but wanting to believe there was merit in what he said, for all their sakes. “You think so? You think I’m making this up?”

Drew leaned over and kissed her on the lips. He could taste the remnants of her toothpaste. “I think you’re a wonderful mother who loves her children. But you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

***

Three days later, as Emily dreamt of shooting free throws all alone with Marty in the high school gym, she thought she heard a phone ringing.

Susan.

When she jolted awake, the ringing had stopped. The darkness stared back at her in silence.

***

The basketball team was ready to start their season off with a two-and-oh record, and Emily was sitting at the kitchen counter eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at three-thirty on Friday afternoon. She had to be back at the school in two hours, so she’d eat her snack, and then go try and get in a tiny nap before heading out. She had her earphones stuck in her ears, and she bobbed her head up and down with the rhythm of the rap music playing. Which is why she didn’t hear Drew calling her name from the bedroom.

Drew, home early from work again in order to get to his daughter’s basketball game, had promised his boss he’d finish up a few details of a project outline from his home office and email the file before he had to take Emily to the school. He’d stripped out of his work clothes and was stepping into a pair of athletic shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt when movement outside the bedroom window caught his eye. He turned and looked out.

The scene was a mostly unobstructed view of Charles Krane’s house. A single tree grew on the property line between the homes, and with the fall leaves having fallen to the ground, the barren branches offered no resistance in seeing.

Drew saw the motion again and his eyes darted to the right, just in time to see Ace bound up the steps of the small deck off the back of Charles’ house, and then disappear.

Hey, Charles must be back from his trip.I guess it has been a week already.

“Emily!” he waited for a response. Tried again. “Emily!”

He walked out into the kitchen, found her at the counter and motioned for her to turn down the music. She obediently pulled the earphones from her ears.

“Charles is back home,” Drew said. “Do me a favor and take his mail to him, will ya?” He pointed to the stack of mail they’d collected for their neighbor resting by the stack of their own on the counter.

Plopping the last bit of sandwich into her mouth, Emily said, “Sure,” and scooped up the mail and went out the back door.

She didn’t want to do it, deliver Charles’ mail. She’d never said anything to her parents about it, but the guy kinda creeped her out. She wasn’t sure why, couldn’t quite put her finger on it. But she didn’t like the way she’d seen him looking at her. But, she knew her dad was making sacrifices at work, getting off early and everything to come to her home basketball games, so she figured it was the least she could do as a good daughter to just get it over with without any argument.

She made her way across the lawn, rang the doorbell. Ace barked loudly from inside.

Emily smiled. I like the dog more than the person. Even if he did tackle me the first time we met.

She waited a long time, too long, she felt, if somebody was home. She contemplated just turning and placing the stack of mail in Charles’ mailbox at the end of the driveway, but then the door opened slowly, just enough for Charles to show his face through the crack.

Emily stepped backwards, startled by his appearance.

He hadn’t shaved in what looked like days, a thick stubble, dark and contrasting to the hair on his head coming in patchy and ugly. His eyes were swollen, like he’d been crying, and dark circles formed beneath them. The whites of his eyes were almost completely crimson. He squinted as he looked at her, as if the sunlight was the first he’d seen in a long time. Emily caught a whiff of something stale coming from inside the house.

“Yes?” Charles’ voice croaked, raspy and tired.

Emily realized how different the man looked when he wasn’t smiling.

“Um, I have your mail.” She held the mail out from her body, offering it to him. Charles reached out with a hand of his own, and Emily saw what looked like long scratches and cuts along his bare forearm. Some were scabbed over and healing, some looked fresh. He snatched the mail from her hand and then closed the door.

Unsure of what had just happened, Emily hurried back across the lawn and found her dad in the office, working on something at the computer. He spun around in the chair and looked at her. “Delivery complete?” he asked.

“Uh… yes.”

“I meant to tell you to invite him to the game tonight. He said he’d like to go sometime.”

Emily wanted to tell her dad what she’d seen. Wanted to tell him about the fear she’d felt when she saw Charles. But, the fact was that she wasn’t even sure what she’d seen. She couldn’t explain why she’d felt ice go through her veins when Charles had opened the door. She couldn’t articulate why the stale smell from inside the house seemed terribly wrong to her. Instead, all she could offer was, “I think he’s sick, he didn’t look so good. So he probably wouldn’t have come anyway.”

Drew nodded and turned back to the computer. “Oh, that’s a shame. I’ll go visit tomorrow then, see how he’s doing.”

He wouldn’t get the chance.

***

Emily had stolen an inbounds pass and then gone down court all by herself, the other team’s defenders hustling after her, and scored an easy two points on a layup to give her team a comfortable eight point lead with thirty seconds remaining in the game. It proved to be enough, and the team had their two-and-oh start.

Marcy and Drew took the team out for pizza afterwards and the evening was filled with plenty of high-spirits and laughs.

Then the Andersons came home.

***

It was almost two in the morning and Emily was nearly running down the upstairs hallway, making her way to the bathroom. She’d been too excited to sleep, still wound up from the night’s win, and had been watching Netflix movies on her laptop when the phone started to ring. She’d let it ring twice before reacting, wanting to make sure it wasn’t a sound effect from the movie or that she was imagining it. But on the second ring—that shrill, distinctive ring—she’d tossed her laptop to the side and, in her sweatpants, sweatshirt and socks, had bounded off her bed and took off down the hallway, trying her best to have light footfalls as to not wake her parents.

She made it to the bathroom just as the phone started its fourth ring, She closed the door, locked it, spun around and opened the panel on the wall. The fifth ring, loud and piercing, was cut in half as she picked up the receiver.

“Susan?”

The scream from the other end of the line hurt her ear, and she had to pull the receiver away from her head. “Susan? What’s—“

“Oh my God, help me! Help us!”

Emily’s heart pounded in her chest. Susan’s voice carried with it absolute terror.

“Help you? What’s going—“

“I think he already killed mom and dad! I know he did, I heard the screams, heard dad begging! He’s still down there, but he called out, said he’s coming for us next!” Susan sobbed into the phone, her panic striking Emily in the gut.

“Who, Susan? Who’s there?”

“Call the police! Please! Oh my God, he’s coming up the stairs!”

Emily heard two hard thumps from the other end of the line, like somebody was pounding on something. It was followed by another hysterical scream by Susan.

“Okay, Susan, I’m calling the police right now, but I’ve got to get back to my—“

“Chuckie, please! Why are you doing this?” Susan yelled. Another thump and then a crash. “Oh my God, Chuckie no!”

Emily heard what sounded like a little boy giggle, then Susan screamed louder than she had before. This time it wasn’t a scream of fear, but of pain. Emily dropped the phone, the receiver banging hard off the closed lid of the toilet and dangling over the side. She opened the door, sprinted down the hallway. Found her iPhone on her nightstand and dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” an almost robotic voice came through the speaker.

Emily was out of breath, her heart still pounding hard in her chest. “There’s… there’s been a murder! Somebody is trying to kill a whole family! You’ve got to send help!”

The 911 operator responded as calmly as if Emily had just ordered a large pepperoni pizza. “Okay, ma’am, are you in danger? Are you being attacked?”

“What? Me, no! It’s… my friend. My God he’s there right now! Please, help!”

“Where, ma’am? What’s the address?”

It was as Emily was realizing the dilemma in the fact that the only address she had for Susan was the very house she was standing in, and that the family in distress existed in a time over thirty years earlier, that she heard the crash from downstairs, followed by a shout from her father.

“You son of a bitch!” his words were laced with fear and… was he crying? “You fucking son of a bitch, how could you!” Another crash, something slammed hard into a wall downstairs. “You killed her!”

Emily’s heart stopped for a beat, her body went cold, the room went dim.

You killed her.

Her.

Another crash, followed by a loud grunt.

“Mom…” Emily said to herself, dropping her phone and running out of the room. Johnny was standing outside his door, Emily could see his panic-stricken face, even in the darkness of the hallway. “Johnny, get back in your room and close the door. Lock it and don’t you dare come out.”

“Why’s Daddy yelling?” he asked, trying hard not cry.

“Johnny, now!”

He scurried back in his room and closed the door, right before Drew Anderson screamed his final scream.

Emily heard it, heard the pain in her father’s voice, and it was as if the wind had gone out of her sails. She knew what that scream meant, she knew whoever was attacking her parents had won. She stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into the dimly lit foyer, listening. Waiting.

She heard another loud thump!and then what sounded like something being dragged across the floor in the kitchen. Her breath was rapid, her heartbeat pulsing in her ears as she was frozen with fear. She couldn’t move, had nowhere to go.

The noise grew louder—heavy footsteps accompanied by the gentle scraping of something against linoleum, and then hardwood as the attacker left the kitchen and ascended down the hallway towards the living room.

He’s going to have to cross right in front of me. He’s going to see me.

The thought hit Emily, she knew she should try and hide, but her legs failed to move. They were cemented in place.

Then Charles Krane came into view. He was hunched over, both arms grasping something as he walked backwards, pulling his cargo. Emily watched as he crossed into her point of view from the top of the stairs as he began to cross the foyer. Then she saw a pair of feet, Charles gripping them at the ankles, come into view. Feet and then shins and then knees.Feet and shins and knees wearing pajama bottoms.Pajama bottoms that belonged to her father.

Emily surprised herself when she screamed. She sucked in a deep gush of air and then yelled with all the anger and sadness she had in her. She screamed for her father, screamed for her mother through the tears that were suddenly warm and flowing down her cheeks. She collapsed to her knees, banging them hard on the landing at the top of the stairs, then sobbed loudly into her hands. At fifteen years old, with both her parents now dead, her life was essentially over.

When she opened her eyes and tried to catch her breath, she saw Charles Krane standing upright on the bottom of the stairs, his eyes fixed on her, a bloody knife gripped tightly in this right hand. Her father’s lifeless legs splayed at his side.

***

His was dizzy, having a hard time keeping himself upright. The woman had been easy, a simple slice to the throat. But the fight with the man he’d just been dragging across the floor to the living room had worn him down. He needed to catch his breath, needed to sit down. But he knew he couldn’t. He had more work to do.

Kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them

The voices wouldn’t stop. They pestered him during the day, called to him at night. He tried to fight them off, tried to tell them no, he didn’t want to. But just like that night thirty years ago, he’d been beaten, defeated. They’d gotten into his head again, made him do more horrible things.The fact that he was an adult now hadn’t seemed to matter much, he was just as helpless.

He looked down at his blood-smeared hands, saw the drops falling from the knife. I cut cantaloupe with this knife, he thought.

Kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them

The girl screamed again and he jolted, looking up the stairs to where she sat on her knees, tears falling down her face.

My God, she’s come back to me!

“Elizabeth, I’m so sorry! I tried to stop it, tried to take it back. I didn’t want to hurt you but they made me, they told me things… scared me to death. I had no choice!”

His head started to swim again, he shook it hard to try and clear it. He felt weak, couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He looked up at the girl he believed to be his dead sister, the sister he’d killed in cold blood all those years ago.

“Elizabeth, I tried to make you pretty afterwards. I used your lipstick… but… but…” Now he felt his own tears start to well up in his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, tried to force them away.

Kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them

Kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them kill them

Kill HER!

Kill HER!

“No! No, I can’t! Once is enough!” He screamed at the voices, the ones who made him do the bad things, the ones who’d ruined his life.

“Elizabeth, run away! Go now, I won’t hurt you! You’ll be safe, but you have to get away from me! Now!”

“I’M NOT ELIZABETH YOU CRAZY BASTARD!”

It was the first thing she’d said, and she’d said it with rage boiling in her voice. What little bit of sanity Charles Krane had left in his brain returned to him, his mental vision cleared, focused. He saw Emily Anderson, the girl next door, standing at the top of the stairs. He looked down and saw Drew’s body dead on the floor next to him. Saw the knife in his own hand.

Then he saw the flashing blue lights begin to dance across the walls of the Anderson’s house as the police cruiser came down the block.

“What have I done? Not again…”

Charles Krane gripped the knife in his fist and ran out the back door.

***

Detective Jim Collins dropped his cigarette to the concrete sidewalk and stepped on it, smearing the black ashes. The night air was chilly, the breeze unwelcome. He remembered the night he’d stood on this very sidewalk with Buck Harris all those years ago. He’d hoped he’d never have to come back here again. Yet, here he was. Another night, another murder.

You wouldn’t believe it, Buck. Actually, I bet you would, you son of a bitch.

He was close to getting his pension, hanging up the badge and the gun and taking Mary on nice vacations. But until then, he still had to deal with shit like this. He wished Buck were here with him, God rest his soul.

“You ready to go in, sir?” a deputy asked him.

Jim looked around, saw the EMTs loading the ambulance with the two bodies from next door. Saw Social Services talking to the young girl and the little boy, making sure they were looking the other way when their parents’ bodies were rolled out like the garbage. Jim looked the deputy in the eyes, “A group’s already been through the house right? Found the suspect dead?”

“Yes, sir. Apparent suicide. They didn’t touch anything, left everything exactly as-is. Said it was… a weird situation.”

Jim sighed deeply. I just love weird situations. “Well come on, son. Let’s do this then.”

Buck stepped over the threshold and had flashbacks from all those years ago, could practically see the bodies on the recliner and the couch in the living room. He tried hard not to let the shiver down his spine show.

“Upstairs, sir.”

Jim and the deputy climbed the stairs, the boards creaking under their weight.

“Bathroom, second door on the right, sir.”

“Jesus, would you cut the sir bullshit.”

“Sorry.”

They made it to the bathroom, the door was already opened. The last time Jim had been in this bathroom, he’d found a nine-year-old Charles Krane sitting in the bathtub, covered in his family’s blood.

This time, Charles was on the toilet.

Charles Krane sat on the toilet wearing a pair of blue jeans and a short-sleeved black t-shirt. He was slumped back, legs splayed out in front of him, head hanging down, resting on his chest. His skin, at least the bits of it Jim could see that weren’t blood splattered and smeared, was pale and ghost-like. The knife he’d used to slit both of his wrists was on the tiled floor at his feet.

There’s our murder weapon, Jim thought.

Nothing about Charles Krane’s body—not the color, the position, the location, the blood—was what was interesting about the man’s suicide. None of these things caused Jim to step forward to get a closer look.

Behind Charles Krane, sitting on a tiny shelf built into the wall, was an old-fashioned telephone. Its receiver, big and bulky and impractical, was sitting in Charles’ lap, the cord draped over his neck and down his shoulder. Also sitting in Charles’ lap was a small scrap of paper with tiny writing scrawled impatiently.

Jim took another step closer, read the note:

THEY MADE ME DO IT.

Jim read the note again, felt the confusion wash over him. Then a scary idea struck him. He reached his hand out for the receiver.

“Sir, uh… Jim, you think that’s a good idea.”

Jim ignored the deputy. He picked up the receiver, removed the cord from around Charles’ neck, put the thing to his ear. The earpiece was cold and Jim didn’t like it.

“Hello?” he said, surprised at how his voice almost caught in his throat.

He waited five seconds, got no response. “Hello? This is Detective Jim Collins. Is anybody there?”

This time there was a deep, grumbling laugh in his ear.

Please enjoy the first four chapters of ROUGH DRAFT, a horror novel by Michael Robertson, Jr

Rough Draft

Robert A. Hawking Gets an Offer

Chapter 1

I’m one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

In an effort to always try and remain grounded and not let his moderate fame and not so moderate fortune get to his head, Robert A. Hawking liked to remind himself how lucky he was. It wasn’t an arrogant thought, not one of conceitedness, but just his way of trying to remember to be thankful for everything he had, and not forget just how hard he had worked to achieve it. Judging by the looks and grins given to him by the curvy redhead who was about ten people back in the line of patrons waiting to get his autograph scribbled on his newest release, he was, at the moment, particularly thankful of how hard he wouldn’t have to work to sleep with her.

There were always one or two at every signing—and those were just the serious ones, the ones who would actually be willing to go through with it. There were countless others who liked to flirt and giggle and touch him on the shoulder or behind the neck when they had their picture taken with him, but he’d been in the game long enough to know which ones were actually ready for the big dance.

Robert sat at the faux-mahogany table in the rear corner of the Barnes & Noble in New York City celebrating the release day of his fifth novel, knowing the redhead was going to be the one. It amazed him that he’d somehow managed to develop the equivalent of rock-star groupies; women who flocked to his signings in droves, always dressed in their most flattering outfits, and always craning their necks to get a glimpse of him. And then of course, there were others, like the redheads, who wanted more than a glimpse. If he had been a romance writer, like that Sparks fellow, who spun tales of lost love and newfound passion, he could maybe understand. But Robert A. Hawking wrote horror. He had killed more people in his books by unconventional methods than any psychiatrist would ever approve of, and had conjured up countless supernatural baddies, twisted psycho-killers, and even a couple possessed office chairs. None of them really said, “I’m boyfriend material,” or “sure, I’d love to meet your mother.” Instead they screamed, “Run, he’s got a knife!” or “maybe we should leave the lights on.”

Robert came to the conclusion many years ago that many of the women who threw themselves at him had probably never even lifted the front cover of the book they had tucked under their arm for him to sign. Probably didn’t even know the title. It was the same as in high school. Back then, it wasn’t the fact that he was captain of the basketball team and a solid tight end on the football team that caused girls to line up at his locker—much like they lined up now at book signings—and tease him and flaunt themselves at him. Half those girls didn’t even know what sports season it was, and the other half only attended games for the social interaction, oblivious to any happenings on the field or the court.

The real reason was quite simple: Robert A. Hawking was an attractive man. Even now, at the age of thirty-seven, his six-five frame was still built for football thanks to a strict weight training and cardio routine he followed religiously. Even as a deadline for a new book approached, he wouldn’t touch the keyboard in the morning until he had worked out. No excuses. Ever. His chocolate-brown hair, which used to be longer and parted to the side, was now cropped much shorter, a bit of hair gel adding a touch of style without making it rock hard. He’d leave that to the ill-advised teenagers and frat boys.

Robert used to wear glasses; sleek, minimalist frames that gave him a very literary look. But laser surgery corrected his vision, allowing his sparkling green eyes not to be hidden behind glasses. His agent advised him to wear the glasses during public appearances anyway, said it made him look more like a writer, whatever that meant. Throw in nearly unblemished skin and a fetish for expensive, tailored suits, and well, the ladies came—no pun intended.

The signing had gone as well as could be expected. He’d arrived into the room amid an eruption of applause and cheers, scanning the crowd and seeing the typical mix of readers who turned out for his events; more men than women, and most of them in the twenty to fifty age range. He stood at the front of the room with a microphone hooked up to the small PA system and started the same way he always did; he thanked everybody for coming out and supporting him and the new book, told some humorous stories about his writing career, and then opened the floor up to questions, knowing he would be asked nothing he hadn’t been asked before and could answer on cue before he performed a short reading from the new book. After he finished the reading there was another round of applause and people anxiously stood and lingered by their chairs waiting for a store employee to announce where the line would form for the book signing.

He’d started signing an hour ago, not setting a limit to the number of people he would sign for, never wanting to disappoint a fan or turn away a long-time or first-time reader. He would sign until the store closed if necessary. That wasn’t going to be the case tonight, it seemed. There were maybe fifty people left in line, and afterward he would hang around for another thirty minutes or so and chat with the store employees and any fans who stuck around hoping to maybe have a few words with him. Then it would be off to dinner and, if his intuition was correct, a romp in the sack with the redhead.

A young man slid a copy of Robert’s new book across the table. “Can you make mine out to Vader?”

Robert took the book and looked up at the guy, a kid really. Seventeen, maybe, wearing jeans and gray sweatshirt with a large red symbol that looked something like the sign for anarchy on the front of it. He had his hood up, covering his head, even though it had to be at least seventy degrees in the store.

“Vader? Sure thing.”

Robert made the inscription and then thanked the boy for coming, saying he hoped the kid enjoyed the book. The kid sauntered off with a small nod of thanks.

And then she was there, standing before him at the table, gently setting the book down and sliding it forward. She was dressed simply in tight-fitting jeans and a flattering cream-colored sweater which accentuated the beauty of her red hair. Very little make-up, very little need for it. She never fully smiled, just had a cute grin that seemed to radiate innocence. Robert wasn’t buying it.

“And how are you tonight?” he asked casually as he picked up the book to open it.

“Fine, thank you,” was all she said.

Robert had expected more, some sort of subtle flirting, or a not-so-subtle advance. He was about to be disappointed, sad that he might be sleeping alone tonight, but then he saw it. He opened the book to the title page to sign his name and found a small scrap of paper wedged in the spine. It looked like it had been torn out in haste from a notebook. Scribbled in blue ink was a phone number.

Bingo, he thought as he quickly pocketed the scrap of paper.

He signed the book, returned it to her with a smile and wink, and then she was gone, back down the aisles of books and out into the chilly late-October air.

“Mr. Hawking, may I please have a picture with you?”

Robert looked up and saw another young man, this one maybe mid-twenties.

“Sure, no problem.”

Robert stood and smiled at the camera, but all he could think about was red hair.

***

Things ended well enough at the bookstore. The employees all shook his hand and thanked him graciously after the last patron had exited the store with a freshly signed copy of Robert A. Hawking’s newest offering tucked under his arm. The store manager assured Robert that he was always welcome to join them in-store, and they all hoped he would visit again at the launch of his next book, whenever that may be.

Robert thanked them all individually for helping make the evening a ‘great success’ and told the manager he could count on it. What he didn’t share with the manager, nor had he shared with anybody on God’s green Earth yet, was his uncertainty.  He wasn’t sure there was going to be another book.

Once everyone was satisfied, Robert slipped his coat over his suit jacket and left for dinner. The cab ride was long and slow due to heavy traffic in the city that evening. As Robert relaxed in the backseat with the torn upholstery on the way to his favorite steakhouse in the city, he reached into his pocket to pull out his cell phone and call his publicist, who had insisted on knowing exactly how things had went at the signing that evening. His fingers brushed against a scrap of paper, and suddenly the call to his publicist seemed unimportant.

He pulled the paper out of his pocket, studied the flowing script the numbers were written in, and then punched the numbers into his phone and dialed. On the second ring he realized he didn’t even know the woman’s name. His eyes again scanned the piece of paper, but he knew better; the scrap was tiny and only contained the digits of the phone number, there was no way he could have missed a name written there as well. He thought about what her name might have been while the phone rang in his ear. On the fifth ring somebody answered. It wasn’t the redhead.

“Mr. Hawking?” a deep male voice asked from the other end.

At first Robert thought he’d accidentally dialed the wrong number, and was about to open his mouth to apologize for the inconvenience when he realized what the voice had said. The man with the deep voice hadn’t answered Hello? Or This is So-and-So or even Thanks for calling Dominoes Pizza. How can I serve you? He had known Robert by name, and answered the phone like he expected the call.

Confused, Robert said, “Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Hawking?”

“It is, and who am I speaking with?”

“Mr. Hawking, It’s an honor to speak with you. You may call me Brian. Brian Jernigan.”

Robert knew the name. Although it wasn’t associated with anybody he’d ever met personally, the name Brian Jernigan meant a great deal to him. It was the name of the main character in his first book. The book that launched his career.

“Look…Brian, if you’re a fan I really appreciate the support, and if you’re ever at a signing sometime please—“

“Yes, I am a fan,” the deep voice cut him off, “but I’m not interested in autographs or photos or simple chit-chat. I’m interested in more than that.”

Robert thought about it. I’m interested in more than that. Was this guy hitting on him? Was the deep voice on the other end of the phone call trying to pick him up? Well, this was a first. How was he supposed to play this?

“Hey, Brian, that was a pretty clever trick, getting the redhead to give me your number, knowing I’d want to call her. She was beautiful. But don’t you see? The whole premise of your little ploy should have been an answer enough for you. I’m interested in women, Brian. Not men.”

Robert quickly realized he had missed the mark as the voice on the other end simply clarified things in a cool, level-headed fashion. “Mr. Hawking, I’m calling to make you an offer. A non-sexual offer. One I think you will be quite interested in.”

“And why do you think I’d be interested?”

“Because it will change your mind about not writing another book.”

Robert sat up straight in the backseat of the cab, looking left then right out the taxi’s windows, as if searching for somebody who might be watching him, following him. He was hit with a feeling of such invasion. Was he being spied on? He hadn’t told a soul the current book would be his last. Nobody. He’d been contemplating it for the past few months, and had even written a letter to his agent explaining so, but hadn’t sent it. The document was saved on his computer at home, ready for the day Robert got the nerve to send it.

How did the deep voice know it? Or was he just guessing? Taking a shot in the dark? Robert regained himself and then said, “What makes you think I’m not going to write another book, Brian?”

“Do you want to hear my offer?”

Robert didn’t want to hear anything else. The tone of the phone call had been unsettling enough.

“If this has to do with business then I suggest you call my agent.” Robert hung up the phone without waiting for an answer.

He tried to push the phone conversation from his mind at dinner but failed. How did he know?

Chapter 2

Back at his home two weeks later, Robert had just finished his morning workout. He had worked his chest and back muscle groups, and after showering, headed to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Robert loved to cook and was extremely proud of his modern kitchen. When he had purchased the nearly one-hundred year old Victorian home five years earlier, the kitchen was the first room he remodeled. He spared no expense, opting for the latest and greatest appliances and counter tops. He even brought in a decorator to assist in planning the color scheme for the flooring, the backsplash, and the cabinets. Other than the gym, he felt the most at home in the kitchen.

This morning’s breakfast was simple enough: scrambled eggs, toast, bowl of fruit, and a cup of coffee. But Robert made sure the presentation was flawless, and the layout of the food on his kitchen table was aesthetically pleasing, even though he would be the only one to enjoy it. He took a seat at the table admiring his food and then took a bite of egg, looking out the large glass doors that led out to the patio and down to his dock on Lake Addi. While the Victorian home was large and beautiful, and while the renovations Robert had poured countless dollars into made it worth nearly twice what he had paid for it, it was Lake Addi that had ultimately been the deciding factor in Robert’s purchase of the house. He loved the idea of looking out over the water and enjoying the image of tranquility in the morning.

He sipped his coffee, smiling at the sight before him, it never got old. The early morning light was just beginning to hit the water, and frost covered the grass and trees and dock. Two loons swam near the waters edge, occasionally dipping their heads under in search of food—apparently it was their breakfast time as well.  A few other houses could be seen around the lake, most belonging to families who used them as their summer homes, and thus were deserted this far into the fall, giving the area an almost eerie calm. The whole scene looked like a framed portrait on a wall. Robert ate the last bit of his fruit, completely immersed in the moment.

Then the phone rang.

The cellular reception was spotty at times out by the lake, so Robert had been forced to keep a landline telephone in his home. The shrill ringing coming from the wall-mounted cordless next to the refrigerator was annoyingly loud and did its best to disturb his otherwise flawless morning. Robert finished chewing his last bite of fruit and then walked over and picked up the handset. “Hello?”

“Hey, Bob. It’s me.”

Me was John Hamilton, Robert’s agent from the very beginning. He’d successfully sold Robert’s first book for a fairly decent advance and had negotiated better and better deals for every book since. John was responsible for Robert’s good fortune: the house, the lifestyle—hell, the women—all possible due to the hard work of Mr. John Hamilton. And John knew it, too. Having just turned fifty, John had seen his share of rodeos. He was quick-witted, smart, and never took any bullshit. It was one of the reasons they got along famously.

“One sec, John. Let me get to the office.”

“Sure thing.”

Robert put the call on hold, took another look out the glass door toward the lake—the loons had moved on, probably with full bellies—and left the kitchen, climbing the staircase to go to his office.

To keep his home life a well-balanced and beast-free zone, Robert had strict rules about conducting any business related duties in his home. The office was the only room in the house where such duties were performed. No exceptions. Every phone call, every bit of writing, every email answered—all done in the office. The rest of the house was for him to enjoy and relax in—not work.

Robert opened the door to his office and walked across the spacious room to the brown leather executive’s chair at his desk. He collapsed into it, placed the Bluetooth headset on his ear, and then spun in the chair to look over the lake before he picked up the line. “Okay, John, what’s up, friend?”

“Same old, just wading through piles of shitty manuscripts. Looking for the diamond in the rough.”

“But you’ve already found me.”

“Call me greedy.”

“Judging by our last advance, I’d say that’s accurate.”

There was a chuckle from the other end, but then John’s tone turned serious quickly. “Listen, Bob, is there something you want to tell me?”

Robert stayed silent. Part of him trying to pretend he had no idea what John was talking about, but another part remembering the phone call in the cab back in New York, especially the part where he had told the creepy man with the deep voice to call his agent if he had business matters to discuss.

“Bob?”

Might was well get it over with. “He called you, didn’t he?”

“Who? You mean the random guy who calls me up and tells me that my most valuable client—you, by the way—is retiring? That I’m not getting any more manuscripts to shop around from the famous Robert A. Hawking? That guy? Yeah, he called me.”

Robert looked out the window. The sun was rising higher, causing the lake to glisten.  He suddenly wanted very much to take the kayak out for a few laps. He knew he couldn’t escape the conversation, however.

“Listen, John, I was—”

“Jesus, so it’s true!”

Robert sighed. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Jesus, Bob.”

“Look, I’m sorry that—”

“Save your sorry.” The words were hot, and carried a bite with them. “I don’t know who this guy is, and I sure as shit don’t know how he could possibly know something like this before I knew it. I’d like to think I’d be the first person you’d tell, or at least call me to discuss the matter before you made a career ending decision. But all that doesn’t matter. I’m calling about something way more important than your damn career. This guy, whoever he is, had a very interesting offer to make, and we’re going to accept it.”

Robert listened to all this with concern. During his entire relationship with John Hamilton, he had never heard him raise his voice. Never once. And now the man seemed downright pissed. Frazzled even. Something was wrong—this was bigger than Robert not telling him about retiring. “John, let’s talk about this. We’ll work it out together.”

“There’s nothing to work out. You’re doing this, so help me god.”

FinniganRuckman Makes a Call

Chapter 3

Finn Ruckman tossed his uneaten pizza crust back into the open box on his desk along with the other remains of what had previously been a large sausage pizza, wiped his greasy fingers on his black t-shirt, and then started typing again. He was midway through the latest novel in his zombie apocalypse series and the pizza had been fuel to help him power through what was going to be a particularly gruesome few chapters in which his main group of protagonists were going to suffer their largest blow to date. He would have to handle the situation with great care and patience. He didn’t want to rush through these scenes. They were going to be pivotal to the rest of the series—which, if his vision held true, would be another three books; bringing the grand total to six. It was a lot of work, but Finn loved every keystroke of it.

Finn figured one of the reasons he wrote about zombies so well was because in the eyes of society, he was basically a zombie himself. Not in the I-want-to eat-your-brains type of way, but in the seemingly dead inside, floating unnoticed through life type of way. It was true, he knew this, but embraced his solitude. At twenty-five years old his imagination might be well-advanced, but his social skills and interactions with the world were severely lacking. He bought a small house in the quietest section of town, and while the ground-level floor was furnished appropriately, he seldom spent time there, opting to basically live out of his finished basement, which served as his office, media room, library, and general hangout area. He only ventured up the stairs to the rest of his home to shower, prepare food in the kitchen, and sleep in his bed on the rare nights when he didn’t fall sleep on the large couch in the basement watching his sixty-five inch television. There were no windows in the basement, and without the assistance of a clock that was kind enough to also display whether the hour was AM or PM, one could quickly lose track of time—and even days—should they spend enough time below ground. The bookshelves lining the room were filled with sci-fi and horror titles (both books and movies), comic books, collectible action figures, and enough video games to potentially start a home-based GameStop store. Posters of some of Finn’s favorite movies and comics decorated the walls. The lighting could only be described as dim. It was a Geek Cave.

Finn’s interaction with human beings was something of psychological studies. He had been generally shy and reserved since birth, and as his hobbies and interests, along with his introverted personality, developed as he got older, the desire to have to speak to and interact with people became less and less. Eventually it was non-existent. He did have a few friends, a small group of guys who for the most part were just like him; pale skinned, wearing dark clothing, and possessing an unquenchable thirst for a game of Dungeons and Dragons. He spoke to them, but of course to an outsider—one not versed in the speak of Dungeon Master—their conversations seemed to be in code. The few trips out of the house he actually made for non-necessities were usually to attend the midnight showing of a just-released sci-fi or comic-book film at the big Cineplex in the city with the same group.

Girls? Forget it. As if his soggy cardboard personality wasn’t enough to turn away a prospective suitor of the opposite sex, his physical appearance practically screamed I’m a virgin who lives with his mom. Finn didn’t live with his parents, but he was a virgin. And unless miraculously overnight, he could grow at least five inches, lose close to fifty pounds, have his milky-white skin clear up, and find a hairstyle for his jet-black hair that didn’t resemble a black mushroom cloud resting atop his skull, he doubted the virgin status would change. He didn’t even have clothes to wear if he was to go on a date. He’d have to end up buying something or go wearing his traditional baggy blue jeans and black hoodie.

One good thing about living in the northwest was that his hoodie was almost always an acceptable wardrobe choice.

With the continuing advancement of the Internet, most of Finn’s world revolved around the Web. All business was conducted via websites and emails. All bills were paid online. Most conversations were performed via instant message or text message on his cell phone. He had the lowest minute plan through his cell provider but supplemented it with the highest data plan. If he couldn’t download it, upload it, tweet it, text it, or flat out type it, he didn’t have much use for it. He had not once ever heard the voice of his agent in New York—the man who had negotiated an extremely fair deal for the first three books of Finn’s zombie epic. Finn had told him straight up from the beginning that electronic was his preferred method of communication. The agent had complied. Finn had all the contact phone numbers for the people in his life, they were just of little use to him.

If writing stories of the undead wasn’t Finn’s profession, he’s wasn’t sure what he would do. What other job would allow him to embrace his silent, often nocturnal, persona and get paid to do it? Night security somewhere? Fat chance. The money he earned from his advance three years ago, plus the steady trickle of royalty money he received quarterly helped him secure the home he lived in and create his Geek Cave. He required little else, except money to continue his hobbies.

The first two books of the series had sold incredibly well. Well enough that the pre-orders alone for the third book—the one he was currently writing, and wasn’t set to be published for almost another year—had it in the top ten bestseller lists on all the online book retailers. People love their zombies.

Finn stopped typing mid-sentence when his iPhone vibrated next to him, signaling a text message. He quickly scanned the short line of text and then responded “No.” He was being invited to go on a quest in World of Warcraft later that evening. Deadline was approaching for the new book, and while Finn might have been geekier than most, a social recluse, and could at times go days without remembering to shower, one thing he wasn’t was irresponsible.

Besides, writing the characters he saw in his head, bringing them to life on the page—living vicariously through heroic bad asses that existed only in the fictional world he created—was the most fun he could possibly have.

Chapter 4

Finn couldn’t explain why or how he did it, but it happened more often than not. After spending a considerable amount of time writing—in what he called his “marathon sessions”, hours without break in front of the keyboard—his dreams were always filled with the visual recreation of the scenes he had just finished typing out. It was a pretty good system of checks and balance, actually. If he didn’t wake from the dream startled, or panicked, or even at times aroused, then he knew the scene wasn’t strong enough, didn’t pack a big enough punch, and he would re-write it. If he couldn’t even convince himself the work was suitable, there was no way he could convince one of his faithful readers.

Finn was currently fighting along side the other band of ever decreasing survivors of his imaginary world’s barren aftermath. The group was working hard to fortify themselves inside an abandoned McDonald’s restaurant and was failing, already suffering one casualty. Scrounging for any weapons they could find; fry baskets, grease stained spatulas and a dirty mop—the group was headed for the service hatch to the roof near the back freezers. Finn was last in line, playing the role of hero, fending off the line of decrepit creatures funneling into the rear of the restaurant. Almost all the group was up the ladder, safely on the roof. He only had to survive another minute or so and then he could try and make his way up, join his companions and begin to plot their next action. He jammed the wooden end of the boom handle he was swinging forward and into the eye of the closest zombie. He heard the sick pop as the flesh caved in and then milky goo began to drip down the zombie’s cheek.

Then he heard the universally recognizable sound of Darth Vader breathing. That deep, mechanical intake and expulsion of air, muffled by the ventilation mask.

Finn’s eye opened and suddenly he was no longer in the run-down McDonald’s protecting his friends. He was sprawled out on his couch in the Geek Cave, one leg dangling off the edge of the cushion, and one arm twisted uncomfortably underneath him. The large screen television was showing the re-broadcast of the SyFy channels latest weekend movie. The volume was turned down low. From across the room he heard Darth Vader breathe again.

Finn sat up, rubbing his eyes with his hands, smelling the lingering scent of grease and pizza still on his fingers. He stood up, adjusted his hoodie and then walked over to his computer. He had set his mail program to play the Darth Vader breathing noise when he had a new email from somebody on his business contacts list, giving him some system of notification that he may have an important matter to address. He clicked the icon for his mail program, checked his inbox and saw two new emails, both from his agent.

He read the first one, his brow crinkling as his eyes took in the words. He finished the email and sat back, not sure what was going on. Then he leaned forward and read the email again, slower this time. He clicked on the second email and saw the pictures attached. He gasped, perhaps the only sound that had come out of his mouth all day. He pushed the chair away from his desk hard and nearly toppled over. Barely managing to maintain his balance, FinniganRuckman searched the pocket of his hoodie for his iPhone, pulled it out, and with trembling hands placed the first ever phone call to his agent.

The phone rang once…twice…three times in his ear. Finn’s heart thudded between rings.  On the fourth ring his agent finally answered the phone.

Finn took a deep breath. “What the hell is going on?”

Find out more at:

Mrobertsonjr.com

Twitter.com/mrobertsonjr

Facebook.com/mrobertsonjr