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

“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Haven. The phone will show up on its own. And it’s not mine. It’s yours.” His tone grew cool.

“Please, Mr. Bettancourt! You have to help me, I’m begging you.”

“Begging me? Isn’t that rich. How many have begged you , Emily? I wonder how many dreams you have crushed of those who have sent you their work, only to be given a form letter rejection . Why would I help you? I’m the one who sent the phone.” He laughed then, deep and throaty.

“You sent the phone? Why? What did I ever do to you? I don’t even know you.” Emily felt deep dread sink into her chest.

“It’ll come to you, Ms. Haven. Enjoy your hell. I’m sure there’s something special waiting for you.”

The phone call came around one in the morning. Drunk and unable to hold it any longer, Emily staggered into the bathroom to pee, returning to find the phone sitting on the desk. She answered on the first ring, resigned from the stress and intoxication to see this through to the end, but still dreading the voice on the other line.

Will it be my mom? How many will die before this is over? I’ve killed Layla; please don’t let it be Mom, too.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Emily. Who else would it be?”

Emily thought she was immune to the shock, no longer really believed that the phone calls could surprise her. How many times had she heard this voice on answering machine recordings and video tapes, at once recognizing who it was and at the same time refusing to believe the voice that sounded so different when she spoke was hers?

“It’s me. It’s you. And it’s just about over, girl.”

“But I’m not dead.” Emily whispered, her head swimming with vodka and shock.

“Yes you are. You just don’t know it yet.”

“Please.” She sobbed, her voice coming out in a whine. “No more. What could I have done to deserve this?”

“Oh, you deserve it all right. Think back. You knew his name from somewhere. Dominik Bettancourt. He was a writer. Years ago when you first started publishing. He sent a story for one of your contests. It wasn’t very good, but it was the best he could do. You rejected it. Sent a form letter. Do you remember?”

“I do now. I rejected his story. But it wasn’t good. Not everyone can be good.” Despite the surreal experience of speaking to herself on the phone, Emily did remember him now. And his story. Some wretched tale of voodoo with little plot and poor grammar. She had to reject it.

“But you didn’t just reject it, did you? Oh no. You had to use him as an example of what not to do. You read his story to your friends so you could all laugh at his attempts. You put excerpts on your blog, cleverly disguised, but you let everyone mock him. It was humiliating for him. He gave up on writing. Gave up on the dreams he’d had since he was a child. You and your friends destroyed something inside of him and what grew in its place was hate.”

“I did. I did all of it. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I was young and didn’t know much about professionalism. I would never do that to him now. Please. One more chance. I’ll make it up to him. I promise.” Emily sobbed, her shame and fear overwhelming.

She had done all those things, using this man as an anecdote at countless cocktail parties. Long after she’d forgotten his name, she would still mention his awful story, using it to make others laugh. It was a horrible thing to do to someone, but she would’ve never dreamed in a million years the man would find out. That he would have otherworldly ways of finding out.

“You are already making it up to him with your suffering. Your pain is his comfort when he sleeps at night. Enough talk. It’s time. They are all waiting for you down here. Oh the things they have to show you. Come home, Emily. Come home.”

There was a click on the line, then nothing. Not even a dial tone or open air. Emily sat with the bone to her ear, now nothing more than a prop. A novelty for the desk she would never see again. Setting the handset back in its cradle, she picked the whole thing up in one hand and carried it to the balcony. The night air felt chilly when she opened the doors, a brisk reminder that fall was coming, with winter close behind. Looking over the railing, she could see traffic racing by below despite the late hour.

Ten stories up, she wondered if she’d hear it hit the sidewalk. She doubted it. Emily tossed the phone over the edge without another thought, realizing at the last second that she might hit a pedestrian, but no longer really caring. She probably wouldn’t survive the night, had no doubt a legion of demons would soon be beating down the door to carry her off to hell, and killing a stranger wouldn’t matter much. She listened for the sound of the crash, or horns honking and people yelling, but heard nothing.

Emily frowned and looked over the railing. Nothing had changed below. Had it even hit the ground? Did it disappear on the way down, only to materialize behind her on the desk? Glancing over her shoulder, she could see nothing in her suite, so she stepped onto the bottom rail and leaned over, craning her neck to see if the phone lay smashed on the sidewalk. The rail gave way without a sound, no screeching protest of metal, no squealing of iron bars. It simply let loose, pitching her into the cold air.

Time seemed to expand and contract at the same time as her body hurtled toward the earth, her screams trailing into the night and rousing hotel guests from their slumber and onto balconies in their pajamas. The fall was endless, but over in just seconds as the asphalt rushed towards her face, people on the street stopping to watch, crying out as her body fell headfirst to the ground.

Emily saw none of this, neither people nor the concrete waiting to embrace her and crush her body to fragments and jelly. As she fell, the fires of hell opened up beneath her, a blast of heat drying her tears as she plummeted towards her father, Ricky, and Layla, their arms opened to receive her. Witnesses would report that just before the woman hit the ground, her body splattering a ten-foot radius, she appeared to be smiling with opened arms, as if in an embrace.

Stew Swenson couldn’t sleep. He’d lain in bed tossing and turning all night, troubled by the news he’d received the day before. Though they were in many ways competitors, both of them running small horror publishing houses, Stew had met Emily years ago at a convention and they’d become fast friends. The news of her death, still being investigated as a suicide, had hit him pretty hard. He gave up on sleep and slipped into his pants, putting on a pair of slippers to head outside.

The Florida surf was indescribably beautiful at sunrise and he hoped it would help quell the grief in his heart. Pouring a cup of coffee, he opened the screen door and stepped outside, tripping over something on the way out. A beat up box lay next to his door, covered in massive loops of packing tape.

“What the hell?” He picked it up, reading the jagged writing on the top. No return address, just a name and a New York City address. How the hell did you get here? It was much too early for mail delivery and there were no postal markings on the box, anyhow. Someone must’ve hand delivered the box. Stew set it on the table and sat down on his porch swing, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Dominik Bettancourt. Now where do I know that name?”

Plop!

Alice leaned forward on the toilet. A wriggle of white had caught her attention and she looked down at the crotch of her panties pushed to her knees. A plump white worm stuck to the cotton, its eyeless front searching the air for food.