Ring ring
I drop my coffee cup in horror, spilling the freshly-made hot sludge down my khaki pants.
What the fuck, I say out loud to the empty store. Spinning around in circles I can’t tell where the ringing is coming from.
Ring ring
Shelf after shelf of antique phones sits silently all around me. Rows of rotary dials are still, but the hair stands up on my arms as if they are watching me.
Shaking my head I think, this doesn’t make any sense. None of the phones are even connected anymore. Most of them don’t even work.
I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. It reads 11:29 p.m. I know the sound isn’t coming from my cell because the ringtone has been The X Files’ theme song for the last 10 years.
Ring ring
Fear and confusion tug at my stomach as I walk toward the back of the store. The ringing gets louder the closer I get to the boxed inventory I have yet to catalog.
Ring ring
Box cutter in hand I start to hack away at the largest unmarked box. Maybe someone dropped their cell phone in the box while they were packaging it.
Ring ring
Ouch! I scream as the box cutter slices into my left thumb during my unpacking fervor.
Blood drips onto the box as I rip the flaps open with my right hand. Inside the box is a single phone but one of the rarest finds I have ever seen. It is a 1920s-style phone with a classic candlestick design made with a mouthpiece and separate receiver.
Ring ring
Dark red blood drips onto the rotary dial. Hesitantly I pull it out of the box and set it on the table I use to make repairs.
Ring riiiiing
Somehow out of the box, the ringing seems more insistent that I answer. Nervously sucking on my thumb to stop the bleeding my mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood.
I pick up the receiver and put it to my ear quietly speaking into the mouthpiece.
Hello? I ask.
At first, all I can hear is a crackling static. The static clears for just a moment leaving a low guttural moan in its place.
Hello? I ask again.
Hearing my voice, the moan turns into more of a snarl. I pull the receiver away from my ear staring into its empty black mouth.
I put the receiver back to my ear as a deep husky voice whispers, “dark is heavier than light.”
The line goes dead filling the store with a baited silence. I put my thumb back in my mouth, sucking on it in confusion.
Ring riiiiing
Ring riiiiiiiiiing
Ring riiiiiiiing
Ring riing
Ring riiiiing
Suddenly the entire store is a cacophony of ringing. Every phone on every shelf vibrates to life all ringing in their own cadence. I clamp my hands over my ears as the rings get louder and louder. It’s almost as if they are inside my head. I roll on the floor in pain with each ring needling at my eardrums.
All at once the ringing stops. I open my eyes to see the store just as it always is. Staggering to get up I brace myself on the table and look at the candlestick phone and then at the box.
I didn’t notice it before but there is a small note at the bottom of the shredded box.
It reads, “To Earl,
Sincerely, Bell Labs.”
I toss the note back into the box and descend the stairs to the basement. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I definitely need some sleep.
I converted the basement of the store into my living quarters after my father passed away and left me his business. It’s primarily boxes of old phones in need of fixing that he never got around to, but was too sentimental to get rid of.
My bed is tucked in the back corner of the room along with a mini-fridge and a steamer trunk where I keep my clothes. The only personalizing I did was hang a string of old multi-colored Christmas lights above my bed.
When I was little I would accompany my father to work. As he tinkered away with the phones he would always say, “Son, we have the most important job in the world. We connect people. We help them communicate.”
He was a quiet man who mostly kept to himself, much like I am today. My mother died when I was really young so my only memories of her are from old pictures.
His last words to me were pretty poetic for a phone salesman. He looked me square in the eyes and said, “Always answer the phone.” I laughed it off at the time thinking it was a morbid joke from an old man on his deathbed.
Those words echo in my head as I try to doze off in the faint glow of the TV. Knowing that I’m far from sleep I grab my computer and start searching for some online antique forums. I finally find a self-proclaimed antique phone expert under the screen name alx&dr_b3ll.
I describe the phone to him leaving out the part about the ringing so I don’t scare him off. He says he will look into it and as he is just about to sign off I ask him for one more thing.
Does the phrase, “darkness is heavier than light,” mean anything to you?
No, it doesn’t. Should it? He asks.
Never mind, I say.
We both agreed to talk more tomorrow. I close my laptop and plug in my phone to charge.
I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. and tuck myself under the covers. But my mind won’t stop cycling through the events of the night.
Am I going crazy? Who is Earl? Who sent me this phone? And what does the voice’s message mean?