C. LaSart - Ad Nauseam - 13 Tales of Extreme Horror

Emily surprised herself by gently replacing the receiver in the cradle. She looked around the room with a calmness she didn’t feel. After rummaging in some drawers, she finally found something she could use. Just like the night before, she packed up the phone and put the box in the trunk of her car, though this time she headed away from the city. After some time, she pulled over alongside a vacant field, leaving her hazard lights flashing.

It was easier to destroy than she imagined. The hammer blows broke the bone (she no longer entertained thoughts it was anything other than real bone), shattering it into large pieces she then smashed again. She didn’t stop until the sun peeked over the horizon and nothing but white dust and two gray stones remained of the phone. Grabbing her smokes off the dash, she lit one, then held her lighter to the cord of braided hair that had connected the handset to the body. When nothing was left to break or burn, Emily drove back home and fell into bed, spending the rest of the morning in a dreamless slumber.

Emily felt miserable. Sitting on her couch in front of the television, she stared at the screen, not watching it. Layla was on a plane, heading to New York to assist her with the hell she found herself plunged into, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Rather than being encouraged by her sister’s act of loyalty and her insistence that this was not something she could handle alone, Emily felt disturbed.

Why was Layla’s reaction stronger to a phone call from Ricky? What was with the heavy silence after I told her what Ricky said about her? Emily’s thoughts chased themselves around her head, long buried doubts resurfacing to nag at her mind. Was it true?

The microwave beeped, informing Emily that her coffee from last night was reheated. She shuffled into the kitchen, and catching sight of her reflection in the black glass of the appliance, she let out a harsh laugh.

“You look like shit, old girl.” Grabbing the mug, she poured some expensive vanilla creamer in and returned to the couch.

It was all ridiculous, really. This business of a bone phone just showing up to bring her calls from the dead. But ridiculous or not, it still happened. Emily wondered why she wasn’t spending more time contemplating the impossibility of her situation, rather than chewing over recurring doubts about the one man she had ever truly loved and her only sibling whom she thought shared all of her secrets with her.

These things shouldn’t matter anymore. I’m tired, she thought. Getting calls in the middle of the night from dead loved ones will do that to you.

Layla was due to land in two hours, and Emily had just enough time to shower before she drove to the airport. Heaving a sigh, she got up from the couch and went into the bathroom to start the water. Undressed, she stood before the mirror, her gaze drawn to every imperfection in the glass.

When did I get this extra fat around my middle? And where did these sagging breasts come from? Or all this gray hair? She couldn’t remember the last time she had gone for a run, something she had done regularly in college but seemed to always be too busy for now. Her youth was passing. Maybe her dad was right. No! That wasn’t my dad. He would never say such hateful things.

The hot water restored her mood somewhat. As she toweled dry, Emily looked in the mirror once again, forcing herself to find things that still looked good. She wasn’t gorgeous but she still looked okay, and was smart and funny. She still had plenty to offer someone, should that someone ever arrive.

Dressed for the day, with her hair wound up in a towel, she padded into the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee. She yelped and braced a hand on the doorframe, afraid for a moment she might faint.

“Goddamn you!” Emily stood in the doorway, her heart hammering. The phone sat quietly on the counter, no sign of the damage she’d inflicted on it the night before.

The eyes glowed hellishly red just seconds before it started to ring. Emily dreaded the call, but was powerless to keep herself from answering it.

“Hello?”

“Hey sis.” Layla’s voice came through clearly.

“Nice try. You can’t be my sister. She’s still alive.”

“Correction Em, I was alive. But as usual, you fucked everything up and now I’m dead. Turn on the news if you don’t believe me.”

“Alright.” Emily changed the channel on the television, turning up the volume just in time to catch the breaking news that a plane had crashed on the runway at JFK. There were no known survivors. She didn’t need to look up her sister’s flight number to know she’d been on it. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Jesus has nothing to do with this, Em. I would still be alive if you hadn’t fucked with the wrong person, just like Ricky would probably still be alive if we hadn’t been forced to hide everything. You selfish twat. You fuck up everything. Thinking you’re so smart and better than everyone else.”

“Stop. You aren’t Layla. My sister loved me.” Emily felt the tears come. Not her sister. Not her baby sister.

“Oh please. You know it’s me. And you know I was fucking Ricky. Everyone knew it, but you were just too damned stubborn to see it. If you would’ve just let him go we could’ve been fucking in a bed, not racing down the highway at sixty-five with his cock in my mouth. That’s why I survived. There wasn’t any spilled pop can that distracted us. I was sucking him off. And you know what? The last thing he did was cum in my mouth. His eyes were closed because he was cumming in my mouth ! That’s why he hit the truck. You worthless bitch. I hated you for that. Sitting beside my hospital bed, trying to hide your grief over Ricky because you were worried about me. I hated how weak you were. You still are.”

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up! You aren’t Layyyyla!” Emily dropped the phone, but she could still hear Layla’s voice.

“See ya tonight sissy. I’ll tell you about all the things that Ricky liked to do to me. The things you wouldn’t let him do. We’ll talk about all the good old times. It’ll be a blast!”

Emily sat in a hotel room, a half empty bottle of vodka beside her. She’d stopped by the liquor store on her way to the hotel. Being sober wasn’t an option. Too much grief and fear for that.

A phone rang. Emily started, her eyes darting around the room in search of the demonic skull. Realizing it was her cell phone, she let out a nervous chuckle. Checking the number to make sure it wasn’t her Mom again, she saw a number she didn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” A man’s deep voice spoke. It sounded cultured, containing a light undertone of some unidentifiable accent. “Is this Emily?”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“This is Dominik Bettancourt. You left me a message saying you had something that you believed belonged to me. I’m sorry; I just got back to town a few hours ago.”

Emily felt her pulse quicken, bolting upright on her chair and gripping the phone until her knuckles cracked.

“Oh, thank God! Mr. Bettancourt. I need your help.”

“Yes, I’m certain you do. Do you still have the phone?” His voice was soothing.

“No. I left it at home. There’s something wrong with that thing. Something evil. You wouldn’t believe what’s happened to me in the last couple days.”

“You might be surprised, Emily, at what I would believe. You said the phone was at home. I take it you are not?”

“No. I drove into town and got a room at the Marriot. Please, could you meet me here? We could go together and get your phone.”