Chapter Three

There's a reason some folks don't have an answering machine....

Chapter Three

 

Despite her resolve when she left her mother’s house, as she pulled into her driveway, she found herself reluctant to go inside.  This is ridiculous!  This is my home…it was a wrong number.  You don’t really know what you heard.  Now, act like a grown woman and get out of this damn car!”  She wanted to follow her own advice, but still moved as if underwater, slowly gathering her purse and keys and opening the car door.  She stood beside the door for a moment, scanning her front lawn as if looking for something, and of course, finding nothing, she sighed and slammed the car door, walking slowly up the sidewalk to her front door.

 

As she entered the front room, two cats and her small dog ambled slowly toward her, as if to say, “Oh, it’s you”.  Normal.  Even the air felt normal again, and she shook head, a brief wry grin gracing her face as she unburdened herself of her required accessories.  She addressed each animal by name and waded through them to the kitchen.

 

Not hunger, but habit compelled her to open the refrigerator, scanning for some unseen and even yet unknown delicacy to justify the open door.  She sighed, closed the refrigerator door and studied the magnets holding business cards, recipes and other pseudo-important documents, some as old as two years and yellowing.

 

Delete it.  Just…delete the damn thing.  It’s nothing more than static.

 

Although her brief visit with her mother had calmed her somewhat, she still felt that small coil of fear in her gut, deep down inside of her and wondered if she would take her own advice--“Trust your gut…it never lies.”  She almost laughed aloud when she thought of the numerous times she had doled those words out like a suburban guru to unhappy friends seeking advice.

 

Okay.  She straightened her shoulders and the words “girding her loins” skipped across the inner marquee of her mind.  Now she did laugh out loud, but it came out more like a bark than a sound of humor, and her small mixed breed dog cocked her head. 

 

“Yeah…I don’t know what that was, either, Sophie, but let’s get this over with.”  As if with complete understanding and agreement, the small dog turned and trotted to the living room where the phone and answering machine were.  She followed Sophie, but as she stood before these commonplace items, that fear-coil made its way deeper inside, longer, if that was even possible. 

 

“I’ll just listen to it one more time, to prove once and for all that it’s nonsense, bullshit, nothing more than stupid-a*s static!” and with that declaration to the dog, she pressed the Play Messages button.

 

"Yoooou.....brooooke.......myyyyyyyy -"

“S**t!..S**t, s**t, s**t!!  Sophie, I think…”  

Suddenly, she realized the dog was no longer in the room with her.  When did she leave?  That ole dog barely moves fast enough to scatter her own crap…what the hell?!

“Sophie?  Sophie, come here, girl.”

Nothing, not even the click of Sophie’s nails on the hardwood floor gave any hint of Sophie’s whereabouts.  Damn…damn.

Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she firmly pressed the Delete Messages button.  There.  Done. 

“Sophie?  Baby, come here.  Come on, sweetie”.  She headed to her bedroom door certain the small dog had merely decided it was time to take a nap.  Just as she entered her bedroom, the phone rang, the loud clanging sound making her jump.

“Son of a…”  Putting a hand over her heart, she took a deep breath and listened for a second ring.  It came almost louder than the first one.  She swallowed and debated answering.  Her hesitation decided the matter for her and mid-third ring she heard the tone signaling the caller to leave a message.

Static, then “I….hate…..you…..”

She dropped to her knees, shaking her head and murmuring “no…no…no….”

Fear and denial fought for space and the pounding of her heart, almost visible through her tee shirt, declared fear the winner. 

This is crazy!  It’s bullshit!  Somebody’s f****n’ with me…that’s what it is…I mean….this is crazy!  It’s bullshit!”  Her scattered thoughts gaining valid meaning by their repetition.  She took several deep breaths, trying to slow her heart to some semblance of a normal range and tried to empty her mind in order to form coherent and logical thought.

A few moments passed, and finally, she felt strong enough to stand, but only barely, and leaned against the door frame.

As is the habit of most who live alone, she spoke aloud.

“She…is…dead.  Mama said so, she was immediately before her God after her last earthly breath and he would not allow someone to return for such a sinful and hateful deed as haunting the living.”  The last words carried an undercurrent of doubt, and so she repeated, “He would not allow someone to seek revenge or sanction evil intent.”  She briefly closed her eyes and sent a brief prayer of hope, asking for a sign that those words were indeed true as gospel.

Okay, breathing not at hyperventilation levels…heart rate still high, but not racing…legs feel stronger…She stood free of the doorframe and returned to the living room.

“You are not a coward.  You have faced real evil and survived.  Flesh and blood evil.  Handle your business, C.!”  Somehow chastising herself aloud made the affirmation more concrete, more real and she steeled herself to Delete Message.

She pressed the Delete Button then quickly scurried to the couch where she had left her bag and retrieved the precious toxins contained in her beloved menthol cigarettes.  She quickly lit one, a little proud that her hands were no longer shaking, and sat on the old loveseat, leaning all the way back and drawing deep on her personal version of Valium.

Her thoughts jostled each other for position and importance, many of which included memories of paranormal movies, wherein “experts” were called in to investigate.  This made her smile, and she pulled another long draw on the cigarette.  Cheesy…and obviously fake…set up.  You are NOT going there!”

“Okay, missy.  What is the plan?  Sophie!  Where’d you go, girl?  Come here.”  She reached her free hand out to the old dog slowly ambling toward her from the hall entrance.  Sophie sniffed, then licked her fingers.

“Some protector, you are!  Come here, baby, get up here with Mama”.  She helped Sophie up on the couch and placed the dog’s head in her lap.  Sophie snuffled, sighed, then promptly closed her eyes.

“Hmmph!”  She patted and smoothed Sophie’s graying head, smoking and attempted to make sense--force her thoughts into some semblance of the “good sense” friends and family had consistently assured she had.

 

 

 

Author's Note

Been working on these chapters, please review and critique.