Hello?

“Hello?” I looked at the caller ID, Unknown.

Silence

“Hello? Anyone there?” I could hear breathing on the other end of the line. It was heavy, ragged, desperate.

“Help…”

“Who is this? Where are you? What happened?” The words flew furiously into the phone, the silence on the other end was devastating.

“….cold…trapped…find.”

“Where are you trapped? Stay on the phone, I’ll get help. I just need to know where you are.”

Silence. The line was dead. I rapidly punched buttons on my glowing screen and heard a brief, throaty ringtone.

“911, what’s your emergency.”

“Someone just called me. They’re in trouble.”

“Are you safe, Sir?”

“Yes, dammit. I’m fine. Someone is…is trapped.”

“Can you see them?”

“No, listen...” As I started to speak, a chime sounded. It was the other line.

“Sir…”

“Hang on, they’re calling back on the other line.”

“Sir, I…” I clicked over, placing the emergency operator on hold.

“Hello?”

“Help me.” The voice was hollow now, tinny. There was a distinct echo, like the inside of a container or a safe, maybe?

“I’m trying. I have emergency services on the line. Where are you?”

“…escape…cold…help.”

“I need more. What number is this? Can you see anything around you?”

“three…house…dark…help now?” It was like speaking into a hurricane, the words seemed harried, whipped along by a raging gale, a powerful swale angry and vengeful.

“Three? What does three mean? Are you in the dark?” I was getting exasperated and I clicked back over to the emergency services operator.”

“Sir, I need you to keep me on the line or…”

“They’re on the other end. I can’t make out what’s happening. They need help.”

“Can you get a phone number?”

“I asked, all they said were the words three, house, and dark.”

“Can you link us three-way?” The operator was calm, professional. I was not.

“Okay,” I shouted into the receiver, nearly dropping the phone as my trembling hands clicked the Merge Calls button at the top of the screen. There was a brief second of hesitation, and then I could see one call with two sources. I was the conduit, the middle-man, a connection between help and death.

“Is anyone there?” The operator asked.

“Three…black…help…cold?” The voice responded weakly. There was a measurable decline in the energy in these words and I felt like something was slipping away.

“I want to help you, but I need more information. What is your phone number?” The operator entreated, but silence wafted back across the airwaves. Out on Berry street, beneath a blazing midday sun, I was pacing. My chest was tight. I couldn’t figure this out. Who was calling me? It was just a random number, right? Or was it something else? Was this someone I knew? Was this a friend?

“Sir….Hello? Sir…are you there?” My attention snapped back and I realized that the operator was talking to me.

“Hi, yes I’m still here.”

“Looks like they hung up. I couldn’t get anything from the other line and we still don’t have enough to go on.”

“That’s it?”

“I had my supervisor run a trace on the number you’re calling from and we’ve tried to triangulate the call on the other end, but it takes time.”

“You can do that?”

“Like I said, it takes time. Is there anything else? Anything at all that they might have said?”

“They said the words escape and cold and help. That was it.”

“And you don’t recognize the voice?”

“No, I was just thinking about that. There’s not a living soul I can think of.”

“I’m going to have to take down your information and we can wait and see if they call back.” I gave the operator my pertinent details and hung up. I was rattled. This was so strange, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do now.

I started walking. Across the sea of colorful shops and shimmering waves of shoppers stood the arched entryway to Elysium Fields, the popular downtown park, nature preserve, and playground. I could hear the rise and fall of the swings, the warm autumn air wafted through my hair.

Step

Ring.

Step

Ring, Ring.

Ste….ppppp… I felt the buzzing in my pocket before I heard the rising symphony of tones emanating from my mobile device.

“Hello?” I answered, the harried echo of fear and uncertainty in my voice raking the silence.

“Help…cold…black…”

“Where are you? Who are you?” I shouted into the device, standing and spinning in circles as though the voice on the other end would suddenly appear like an apparition out of the shadows of the tall oak trees.

“Three…street…help…escape…”

“Slow down. I can’t understand…” The line was dead. I was standing at the edge of a long steel fence, staring out across Elysium Fields, holding a silent phone with a blank screen in my hand. Something was going on here, and there was nothing I could do. If emergency services couldn’t even trace the…

The phone rang.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

A click. I looked at the screen. It wasn’t dead. It was just glowing, like someone was on the other end. What was that? I listened closely, trying to make out anything else.

“Sir…” The voice boomed into my ear and I nearly dropped the phone to the ground. It was the 911 operator.

“Uh, hello? Yes?”

“Sir, we’ve traced the call. Who do you know at 1497 Third Street?”

“Third Street?”

“That’s right sir. We have it registered to a Thomas Kincade?”

“Thomas…”

“Kincade. Yes, that’s right.”

“But, that’s impossible.”

“Why’s that sir?”

“Because…that’s my…” I trailed off, my eyes glazing over as I stared out into the seething crowd of pedestrians. Their hats and scarves and jackets were practically fluorescent, the brilliant glare of the afternoon was blinding.

“That’s your, what, Sir?”

“That’s my father’s house.”

“Okay, do you want us to send someone to assist?”

“No…it’s just that…”

“Just what, Sir? I need to clear the line.”

“It’s just that…he’s dead…he died last week.”

“Sir, I’m going to need you to take this seriously or we’re going to…”

“No, I’m serious. Heart attack. He’s…gone.”

“Sir, if you need someone to talk to, I can send an officer.”

“No. I have to go.” I hung up quickly and started running through the park. As my feet flailed, my arms pinwheeled, speeding me into a fevered ball of motion and inertia that sent me bouncing and skittering between paired walkers and anxious mothers. I nearly toppled two toddlers who were gingerly high stepping over ant-trails and thick cracks that spawned from long oak roots along the pathway. When I hit Second Street, I stopped, panting, my hands on my knees as I slowly regained composure. I looked at the phone in my hand.

Silent.

I watched the people flow by, a fluid passage of faceless souls. A death’s head with deep sunken eyes appeared on a man next to me. A mother in a flower dress transformed into a ghoulish witch and cackled, sneering as I passed. A demon’s spawn infant turned and spewed green bile over his stilt-walking father’s bony shoulder. It was a parade of the dammed. I needed to get out of there.

Second becomes Franklin Street which meanders gracefully into Third. It anchors the town, lined with oaks and tall hedges, and rimmed with an echo of grand Victorian remnants. My father’s was humble, ramshackle amidst the parade of stately homes. I launched up the thick rotting stairs, fumbling to get the keys out of my pocket. As I neared the lock, I noticed that the latch was ajar and I pushed through with my arm, entering a darkened foyer and was greeted by the stale and musty wash of emptiness.

“Hello?” I called out.

Silence.

“Is someone there?” My hands were shaking. From the shadows, a terror gripped me, a sense of foreboding, of deep quivering uncertainty. What was this? Who would be calling me from…this house?

I passed through the long wood-paneled hallway, quickly navigated the gaping living room, and slipped into the kitchen. A dim, amber bulb was turning slowly over the breakfast nook, casting long furtive lines across the disarray. Dishes were everywhere. A hot plate was still plugged into the wall. There was a bowl of pancake batter congealing in a white porcelain mixing bowl. I could almost smell the searing bacon. Long-dried specks of oil and grease spattered the glossy black of the antique stove.

“Hello? I whispered, my voice hoarse and earthy.

I crossed to the safety of the amber light, my hands outstretched, seeking a weapon, anything to ward off the telephoning specter. My fingers found a long, heavy rolling pin and as I wrapped them around the edges, pulling it free of the gloppy mess on the cutting board, it knocked a small vial of white powder onto the countertop.

Bzzzzzz ...

As though jolted by a sudden electric shock, the phone buzzed in my pocket.

“Hello?” I answered it one-handed, my fingers trembling as I pressed the green answer button.

“Help me. Black notebook. Freezer. I’m so cold.” The words were hollow but clear, and I turned and stared at the freezer, my breath ragged, fitful.

I crossed to the oversized steel door in two steps and wrenched against the long, cool handle. It swung open slowly. Peering through the gloom, I stopped, suddenly overcome with grief and desperation. The hollow eyes of my father stared back at me, his blue lips locked open in a sinister grin. In his hand was a small black notebook. I took it from him carefully and stepped back. I flipped absently through the pages until I found one near the end. It was dog-eared, smudged with black soot. In large, block letters, it stated The House, and $20,000…payable to me, his only son in the event of his untimely death.

The word VOID was scrawled across the top of this, his last will and testament.

“What is this?” I demanded.

I could hear sirens in the background.

“Answer me! I pleaded.

They grew louder.

“What is this? Why would you do this?”

The phone rang in my pocket.

“Hello?” I practically screamed.

“Hello, son.” The voice of my father was clear, ethereal, terrifying. “Thanks for coming.”

When they arrested me, I couldn’t speak. I could hardly breathe. I just kept staring at those cold, blue-tinged eyes in the freezer, the scornful mouth, and that black notebook.

How had he known?

I had been so careful…hadn’t I? A few drops in the pancakes, another splash in the OJ, a couple of dashes into his nightcap…nothing obvious.

They loaded me into the squad car, and we drove along Third Street, back up through St Marks, and past Elysium Fields. My eyes were riveted to the crowds, their hollow faces and dour grey clothing. In the center, a single man stood laughing, his eyes glinting with a light blue tinge. A streak of light split the sky and radiated around him. My father. In his hand he held a single treasure, a remnant of a life lived long and hard: the cracked receiver of a cordless black telephone which he raised to his ear.

And in my head, I heard a ringing, like the sound of my mobile, but deafening. I screamed as it enveloped me, my body writhing with the excruciating tenor of the trill. I writhed and twisted and shook, begging the sound to stop, to release me from its tremor. Nothing would stop the ringing noise and it seemed to balloon around me as I shook, feeling my organs tighten and the blood vessels in my head swell.

There was nothing left to do. I leaned my head against the window and stared into the brilliance of the pale sun which trembled and seethed in the azure sky.

“Hello?”

Silence.