Ad Nauseam (21 page)

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.”

“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.