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A voice from the darkness
The familiar smell of mould and must pressed in upon Chris as he closed the door of the apartment. Brooklyn's humidity had gone to work despite the Dominion's air conditioning. If he had expected some revelation, beyond the cube's visceral imagery, there was none.
He stood quietly for a moment, hand in pocket, holding the cube loosely.
What had he expected?
There was no answer to that question, or at least none that came readily. With all that had happened today, he'd thought...
No. He hadn't thought anything.
He crossed the small entranceway and stepped into the living room. Everything neatly arranged; did the police do housework after they'd surveyed a crime scene?
This wasn't the crime scene, Chris thought.
There hadn't been a crime. There had been a suicide - Angela had taken her own life at the office.
He shook his head, took a step. Noticed that the voicemail indicator was flashing on the phone. Without thinking, he pressed play and a familiar, polite female voice spoke: "You have eighteen new messages... Message one..."
A moment's static and then a howling, screaming voice erupted from the tiny speaker. This was a woman's voice at the edge of sanity.
"Chriiiiiiiiisssss!" the voicemail screamed, "Chriiiiiiiiisssss! Chriiiiiiiiisssss!"
Chris felt his muscles contract at the sound of the voice, tension flooding through him, readying him for attack or defence. He almost screamed.
For once, there was no change to the energy of the cube.
"End of message... Next message..."
Static.
"Chriiiiiiiiisssss! Chriiiiiiiiisssss! Chriiiiiiiiisssss!"
"End of message... Next message..."
Chris listened to all eighteen messages, each filled with that shrill, screaming, insane woman's voice repeating his name over and again. As he listened, Chris felt the tension beginning to flow out of him, the initial shock replaced by something approaching curiosity.
Seeing nothing else of interest in the living room or kitchen, Chris walked through to the bedroom. The curtains here were closed, shrouding the room in half-light. Without thinking, he reached around the doorframe to switch on the light.
"Please don't do that," a voice spoke from inside the room.
This time, Chris did scream. Involuntarily, he began to turn, to run, to get away from whoever had spoken to him from the darkened bedroom.
"No," the voice came again, "don't go. Please don't go."
Now, the cube came back to life, the dark, deep energy thrumming out from his pocket. The nausea returned, compressing his stomach, threatening to surge up his throat. His feet wouldn't move, though he flexed his legs as hard as he could, they wouldn't move.
"Come back."
He knew the voice, of course. Wasn't he in her apartment?
He turned to face into the darkened room.
"Hi, Chris," Angela said.
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This Pod rates: 5 |
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