by Madeline Mora-Summonte
(367 words)
The phone rings, a shot through the silence of the boarded-up house.
Marjorie stares at the old wall phone, a corpse calling out from beneath its shroud of dust and grime.
The world went to Hell a long time ago, taking all its trappings with it. She hasn’t heard another human voice in years. Unless you count the hallucinations—her grandmother, long dead, laughing in the kitchen or her childhood best friend, taken by cancer in their teens, wanting Marjorie to come out and play.
The phone rings again, the past screaming into the present.
Marjorie lifts the receiver with trembling hands, listens.
Breathing. Someone is there. She closes her eyes. Please, please let this be real.
One word lurches down the line, crouches in her ear.
“Marjorie.”
She opens her eyes. How do they know her name? Did she say it and not remember?
“It’s been a long time.”
The voice is ragged, shredded but she recognizes it now. Fear quakes her body. She leans against the wall to stay upright. It can’t be him. He was old when she was young. He’s dead, has to be.
“You remember me, Marjorie, don’t you?”
Calling hello from the porch as she walked home from school.
“I’ve missed our chats.”
Closer, leaning over the fence, asking after her new puppy.
“Tell me. Do you still smell yummy?”
On the sidewalk, blocking her path, close enough to smell her hair.
Marjorie slides down the wall. The apple smell of a shampoo from long ago washes over her as if she just emerged from the shower.
“Never mind. I’ll find out for myself soon enough.”
She bangs the back of her head against the wall, desperate to shake herself loose from this nightmare within a nightmare.
“I’m coming for you, little girl. And this time, I’m gonna get you.”
She twists, reaches up then slams the receiver back into place. She sits again, hugging her knees to her chest. Breathes. It’s not real. It’s just like when she hears the other voices. It’s not real.
Slowly, sanity returns, along with the usual silence.
Until the sound of someone prying the boards off the front of the house shatters them both.
END
Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber and a tortoise-owner. Many of her creepy little tales are out prowling in print and lurking online. Visit www.MadelineMora-Summonte.com for a taste of her work. Just be careful something doesn’t taste you back.
Dude. Definitely nailed the horror. *shudder*