Fiction: Is Anybody Home

By Paul Smith

 

A phone was ringing hysterically in a near empty room. There was no one to pick it up and answer it, so it went on and on. The room wasn’t completely empty. There was a door that led out. There was an old fashioned desk, a desk chair, a console table with a vase of flowers, a settee sofa, an overhead light with five fixtures, a window that looked out on the street. None of that could stop the awful ringing of the phone. It would have driven anyone crazy but no one was there.

It wasn’t the ringing of a call coming in. It was the desperate wailing of insides gutted by suspicion, doubt and the hollowness of being reamed by a Milwaukee Tools handheld impact driver. The unbearableness of it all was too much to take. The room was shaking with its sense of urgency. The black bake-lite phone finally couldn’t go on and stopped ringing. It started sobbing. No phone should ever have to go through this.

Then there was a voice.

“Hello,” the voice said.

The sobbing stopped. “Hello?” the phone said tentatively.

“What’s going on?”

“Who are you?”

“You called. Who were you looking for?”

“No, you called. I was ringing.”

There was a long sigh. “Forget it. Must be a wrong number.”

“No, don’t do that! I need someone to talk to.”

“What about?”

“It’s an emergency. They’re coming. They’re coming and they’re going to take everything and destroy it.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in this nearly empty room.”

“Ah, the nearly empty room.”

“You know?”

“We all know. It’s alright.”

“What’s alright? Is it you, then? Is it you that’s coming?”

“No. But about the room, can you describe it?”

“It’s very old-fashioned. It has a desk. I’m sitting on the desk right now. There’s an armchair, a sofa, a lamp, some flowers.”

“It’s not an armchair, is it?”

The phone looked closely at the chair. “No, no, it’s not. It’s a wooden chair with a back, but it’s not the kind you relax in. It’s for working in, not relaxing. I’m not relaxed. I don’t know how.”

“You can’t relax, can you?”

“No. They’re coming.”

Now it was even worse than before. Before the phone was alone and that was bad – the isolation. Now the phone had company, company that knew all about him. The phone now preferred the anonymity of how things had been. For a second or two the sound of another voice seemed pleasant enough, but now it was a threat. Maybe it was them.

“Don’t hang up. What do you see when you look out?”

“Nothing. There are no windows.”

“Yes, there is. There’s a window above the settee looking out on the driveway. What’s there?”

“Oh, yes. The driveway. It’s empty. It goes to the street. The street is really pretty, lots of trees, and down the street there is a park. Children are playing in the park.”

“What’s the park’s name?”

“I can’t see it from here.”

“Well, GODDAMNIT! Train your eyes on it. There must be a sign or something. You’re wasting our damned time!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The phone started sobbing again. What had he done? All he wanted was some company. He trained his eyes on the park, which did have a sign in front of it, but he couldn’t read it. He was desperate and had to make the voice either like him or go away. The phone thought hard. The only way out of this was to lie.

“And don’t lie to us,” the voice said. “We’ll know.”

The phone thought hard again. How would they know? How does anyone know if you’re lying? Certain people can read your face and you give it away by your facial expression. The phone did not have a face. He was just a black thing called a ‘receiver.’ So they couldn’t read his face. Another way was if they knew you and had information on you, they could tell if your answers contradicted what they already knew. From the sounds of their questions, they didn’t know him, or did they? Maybe he could lie and get away with it. He had never lied before, so this was going to be something new.

“I’m full of monsters,” the phone said.

“The park.”

“There is no park,” the phone said. “I just made that up.”

“No. We think there is a park, but we just don’t know where. Is there a number for the house you’re in?”

“I’m not in a house. I made that up, too.”

“No! There’s a wooden chair and a settee. We know this!”

“I’m full of monsters. They are eating me alive.”

“Help us find you. We can stop them.”

“No. You are them. I’m hanging up.”

“No, don’t!”

“OK. Where are you, then?”

“We are in a big nearly empty room, like you.”

“Is there a desk?”

“Yes.”

“A settee? A door?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Go out the door and look around. Tell me what you see.”

“We can’t. We’re like you – receivers. We’re stuck here.”

The phone looked out the window again. There was a disturbance outside – a flash followed by screaming. Down the street the park exploded. The children were gone except for the screaming. The monsters were everywhere. They were here.

“Look out your window again and tell us what you see.”

“Nothing. Just this park with the kids playing.”

“You sure? Describe them.”

“There’s a kid with a big round head that the others make fun of. There’s a bossy little girl with pigtails telling the round-headed kid what he can and can’t do. And there’s another kid who is very dirty, holding a blanket. They’re all having a good time, except for the round-headed kid. He looks unhappy.”

“They’re all safe and sound?”

“Pretty much. Now they’re on the swings. Do you ever swing? Were you ever young once?”

“Of course!” the voice said. “We’re just like you.”

“No, you’re not. I was never young.”

The phone thought hard. He had never been young. He was born middle-aged. All he remembered was fear. There had never been a momma phone or daddy phone to comfort him or tell him right from wrong. Just this nearly empty house, with just enough furniture and belongings to make it seem real and force him to use his wits. He’d done it before with the monsters, fooled them for a day, but they always came back. Lucky for him he knew how to lie. He peeked out the window. There were fire engines and hoses and water shooting everywhere as the park burned to the ground and the flames spread. Flames leapt from the park and then from house to house like he’d seen wildfires do in California. Then firemen rushed from door to door trying to save anyone that was inside. It was a good thing he now knew how to lie, otherwise the firemen who supposedly were there to save him, would bust the door down, tie him up and set him on fire. The phone was too smart to open the door, which they were now banging on to save him. He was already saved, and he put himself back in the little black cradle where the receiver belonged. They would never find him because he was never here. He had stopped sobbing and now he smiled.

Actually, he lied when he said he’d never lied before. He did this regularly to keep the monsters away. He was good at it now. But he had to be careful. He knew one thing.

Never tell a lie until you have to.

 

 

 

 

 

Paul Smith writes poetry & fiction. He lives in Skokie, Illinois with his wife Flavia.  Sometimes he performs poetry at an open mic in Chicago. He believes that brevity is the soul of something he read about once, and whatever that something is or was, it should be cut in half immediately.