We Know What You Did

The text hit Simon's cellphone just as he was getting ready to go to sleep.  It came from an unknown number that didn’t match any of his contacts.

He was tired.

The IM made no sense. 

As he climbed into bed, his phone dinged with the arrival of another text.

For some inexplicable reason, that gave him a chill. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Craziness."

He blocked the number, pulled his covers up to his chin, and went to sleep.

The next morning, when Simon’s alarm went off, it was the wrong ringtone.  His was set to Seaside Sunset.  This was some old-school one-tone alarm.  Still half asleep, annoyed, he was going to let it go to voicemail, but then his phone answered itself. 

It lit up; the speaker came on; and he heard, “We know everything.”

It sounded like numerous voices overlapped— educated women, learned men, innocent children.

Some were contemptuous. 
Other voices sounded sad.

Startled, he flipped over in bed, reaching for his phone to hit the red disconnect button, but before he could, they said, “We know intimately how cruel you are."

Unnerved, eyes wide, he hung up... only for his phone to immediately ding.

A new text filled his screen. 

Simon had never been cruel and certainly wasn’t evil! Halloween was just around the corner. Someone with a sick sense of humor had to be pranking him.

He went to block the number, only to realize it was the number he had already blocked last night.

He squinted, his nostrils puffing, his armpits dripping sweat.  How was that even possible?

His cellphone rang for a single second.  Then that same eerie ensemble of voices spoke, this time underscored by that shrill alarm bell that had woken him.

“We know the depths of your depravity.”

He hit the two side buttons that pulled up the screen offering options to: Power Off, Restart, Emergency Call, or access Medical Info.  

Simon powered off.

He was bewildered.   None of this made any sense.  He wiped perspiration off his brow.  He could only imagine that maybe—

The television turned itself on. 

“BREAKING NEWS!” The picture on the screen showed a street cordoned off by police and emergency vehicles.  “We can now report on the severity of your crimes.”

Grabbing his arms with clammy hands, Simon screeched, “What the FUCK!?!”

The volume had risen. There were a greater number of frantic voices in the television mix.   Still underscoring them all was that high-pitched continuous alarm, but now he also thought he heard children crying. 

The crowd of voices announced, “We suffered because of your sins.”

He yelled at the TV, “What sins?!?  What crimes?!?  I didn’t do anything!!”

Scrambling, he started looking for the TV remote. He couldn’t find it.  It wasn’t on the nightstand beside the bed.  Knowing it had to be buried somewhere in his covers, he went digging.  Always cold this time of year, he had two blankets and a sheet creating layers to search through.

Behind him, still more accusers (mostly children) joined those already on television. “We can conclusively confirm that Simon Ackerman is a monster.”

“NO!” Simon yelled, throwing pillows off his bed in his search for the remote.

“We’ve seen the proof.”  On the tail of the many vehement voices, a few agonized voices said, “We are the proof!”

Now the alarm and the weeping were joined with screams.  But the voices could/would still be heard.

“We know what triggered you.” A weak voice added, “Pun intended.”

He found the remote beneath the last of the four pillows on the bed.  Grabbing it, he jabbed it forward, pointing at the TV, while pushing the off button.

It didn’t work.

He hit the power button over and over.

“We know how long you've been contemplating this.”

“Contemplating WHAT?!?”

“We know who you blame.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

This time, they answered Simon directly, “Yes, you do.”

For a moment, screams blasted forth, overriding everything.

Throwing aside the useless remote, Simon bounded out of bed.  He rushed across the room to the flat-screen and unplugged it, but not before he was told, “We know why you hated us.”

The moment the TV went off, his cellphone lit up on the bed, saying, “We know where you ingested your vicious dogma.”  The volume of his cellphone now matched that of his TV— another impossibility.

As the distraught throng was speaking, Simon was moving.  He grabbed his phone and ran out of his bedroom, going down the hall to the bathroom. 

Just before he threw his android in the toilet, the voices said, “We know your wicked intentions.” 

As they went into the drink, some voices laughed.  Other voices howled.  The children cried hysterically.

Voices oozed out the bathtub drain and the sink. “We know how you've nurtured your radical ideology.”

Then the bathtub drain rang the <school bell>alarm while the sink wailed.

In the bedroom, the television roared, “We've heard how you justify your extremism.”

He wore shorts to bed, and that had to be enough because he definitely wasn’t going back into his bedroom to put on more clothes. 

He had to get away from these voices!!

Simon rushed through the living room, grabbing his car keys off the coffee table.  At his front door, he paused only to slip on his flip-flops.

This time, it was only girl voices that spoke through the living room TV. “We were <are> your cheerleaders.”

Then every device in the house emitted an ear-splitting shriek.

Simon rushed outside into warm morning sunlight.  The sky was blue.  A soft wind blew fiery leaves across his lawn.

He dashed to his car. 

But then he abruptly stopped, knowing what was in the trunk.

He hesitated.

Cars rolled down his street.  Suddenly self-conscious, embarrassed by his state of undress, he jumped into his automobile.

When he fired up the engine, the radio was on loud.  Simon was relieved that it was playing music, instead of yelling at him.

Simon drove off, feeling momentary relief, but his mind was still spinning.  Instinctively trying not to think about what just happened, he sang along,

The music was cut off as the voices interrupted, “We weren’t given anything but pain…”

The follow-up was even more emotional.  “… and terror.”

Afraid it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good, he turned off the radio as he drove on autopilot toward his destination.

For a few minutes, he was alone without the voices.  Silent time with his thoughts was nearly as bad as hearing the mob.

Simon knew all of this was impossible.  And that meant he was losing his mind.  Actually, it more likely meant that he had already lost his mind.

Devices couldn’t turn themselves on. Drains couldn’t scream.  No one could possibly know his sordid secrets.

“We know,” said the radio.

His glovebox popped open, causing him to yelp with surprise.  The hellish voices retorted from there, “We experienced your perversions— up close and personal.”

“SHUT UP!  SHUT UP!  SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!”

The radio caterwauled.  The glove compartment moaned. Even his rolling wheels on the street were yammering about something.

Sooooo many voices now.
They filled up his car.

“WE KNOW YOUR SOUL IS DAMNED!!!”

Simon bellowed, “WHO ARE YOU?!?!”

“We are…”

He turned off the street onto the drive leading up to the elementary school. 

“… HERE.”

Cruising slowly past the front entrance, he circled around to the doors in the back.  He didn’t know if they would be locked or not.  It didn’t matter.  He had enough firepower to blast his way inside.

They spoke their last words in four separate groups, instead of in unison. 

One group said, “We’re traumatized.”

Another group said, "We're scared."

The third group said, “We’re scarred.”

The final group said...

"We're DEAD."

Simon exited his vehicle like a newly risen zombie. With bizarre, jerky movements, he went to his trunk and opened it. He quickly gathered up his long gun and satchel of ammunition.

The time had come to get down to some bloody business.

Business by Tiësto.