The Phone Line

It was cold and, as the sun fell, it became colder still. Mr. Harden sat by the fireplace in his living room, lying between the couch and a thick wool blanket his late wife had given him for his forty-fifth birthday. The interior of the home was sparsely decorated, with several old picture frames, with the pictures removed, a handful of magnets decorating the front of the kitchen fridge, and an old Meier M-111 radio sitting on the mantelpiece. Mr. Harden did not have much because he did not want much, especially things that cost him money, money which he had worked hard to earn by selling computers by phone for a foreign computer company. Though, he did not own a computer himself. Mr. Harden was a man who found little joy in the small details of life, but instead in the calculated pragmatism of getting more than he gave. 

It was the third Friday of October, and the season of Halloween had swept the town of Virgil, Ohio. But, Mr. Harden cared little for the spirit of the holiday. In fact, he cared little for any holiday at all, seeing them as little more than schemes, plots to trick people into spending more money than they should and the ones who fell for such things—sheep. “Sheep! The lot of 'em,” he would say to any who cared enough to listen. “Besides, what difference is there between Halloween, Christmas, Thanksgiving and any other day? Every day comes but once a year so why not celebrate them all the same? Or better yet none of them at all!”

But, no matter what Mr. Harden said or how often he said it, more decorations seemed to appear in his neighborhood each year. So, this year, he made the decision to not leave the house at all for the whole of the holiday. The only ways he spent his time were fiddling with the underbelly of his prized F-250 Ford and tuning his M-111 radio. 

When Halloween finally came, he deliberately wore earbuds, so he would not be distracted from the noises of the children running outside, the dogs barking, or the incessant knocks upon his door. He adorned himself in a pale blue robe, with white polka-dots, another present from Jenine, back when things had been better and cracked open a can of Genesee. In the den, downstairs, he found solace in the silence. No distractions. No aggregations. It was bliss. With a screwdriver in one hand and his Genesee in the other, he worked on replacing the dial knob of his shining M-111. The lights of the house were all off, besides the single desk lamp he used to see. He did not want to give the children in the neighborhood any more reason for coming to his doorstep that night than he needed to, and he certainly detested the idea of paying an electric bill any higher than absolutely necessary.

For once, he thought this might actually be a good Halloween. For, there had not been any distractions; few screams from outside, and not even a single knock on his front door. Perhaps they’ve finally gotten the gist of things, he thought to himself, proudly, but lonely. Then, the phone from upstairs rang.

“Damnit,” he muttered aloud to himself, before putting down his things and walking upstairs. 

Mr. Harden snatched the phone from its place on the hook and answered in a gruff, impatient, voice.

“Hello? Who is this? Don’t you know what hour it is?” He said, only then checking his watch to see it was nine o’clock in the night. 

But on the other end, there was only static.

“Hello? Hello?” He growled in quick succession. “What gives?”

But still, there was only static. Mr. Harden quickly hung the phone back up on its line and returned downstairs to his work, more peevish than he had been. But, just as he sat down, and was about to take another sip of cold, bubbling Genesee, the phone rang again.

“Are you kidding me?” He barked to himself.

With a heavy inhale and exhale he got up, rather than listen to it ring for god knows how long, and went to fetch it off the hook once more.

“Hello? Who the hell is this?” He asked. “What business you got disturbing me in the middle of the night?”

Mr. Harden waited for a reply, but still heard only the steady beating hum of empty sound waves. He was about to hang up the phone again, when there came the faintest sound. At first he did not know if it came from the other line or not, and so held the phone closer to his ear. There it was again. A soft whimper, vaguely resemblant of a soprano voice. It almost sounded familiar, but Mr. Harden had convinced himself it was not.

“Hello? Hello? Speak up if you’re there.”

But all his ears could discern was the faintest whisper, moan, as if the waves carrying it through the telephone wires had broken in some way causing it to sound distorted and unintelligible. Something altogether unnatural.

So, Mr. Harden hung up the phone as he did before, and mumbled to himself as he walked back down the stairs. There was silence, for another hour or so, and the phone grew further and further from the focus of his thought. Then, at precisely the moment his watch showed eleven o’clock,  he decided to go to bed. He put away his things, crushed the empty can of his Genesee before throwing it away, and marched up the wooden stairs to his bedroom. Only, when he lie in bed, he could not, for the life of him, seem to fall asleep. No matter what he did, how little he thought, how much he thought—nothing seemed to matter. It was as if there were a permanent feeling of anticipation coursing through his veins, through his mind. The hairs on his body stood, like there was something he was expecting to happen but he did not know what. 

Then, the phone rang.

Mr. Harden fought the urge to get up and yell to whoever was on the other end. He fought the urge to disconnect his phone altogether and hurl it against the hardwood floor until it broke. In the end, he convinced himself he would only be playing into the prank of some errant child or scam caller by answering, and so decided to let it ring until it stopped. Only this phone did not stop ringing. When it paused, it did so only for a moment, before the rhythm began again. He began to feel it in his body, his arms and legs buzzing with every ring, his heart stopping and starting again in a matching pattern, and his mind—his mind pulsing with thoughts and images of strange things. First, he saw his wife. Then, the first house they bought together in their twenties, in Beaumont, Connecticut, when they had just graduated from college. He saw the first car he had owned, a red, 1957 Chevy. Then, he saw something else. A cloud of black smoke. A forest of shadowy pine trees, with sharp crowned tops, like hundreds of spears aimed towards the sky. Within the dark, there was a light, a single, small, burning light. Mr. Harden did not know why, but he felt it was looking at him, like it could see him, like it knew him somehow. Then, the images stopped, and he got out of bed.

In his nightgown, he walked downstairs, and picked up the phone, but did not say anything. This time, he only listened. In the silence of the night, he heard more than just static, more than just murmurs. He heard a voice, soft and faint, but audible now. 

“Charles?” Asked the voice of an old woman. Charles. The name lingered in Mr. Harden’s heart, for there were only two people that called as such in his life. His mother, who died when he was a boy, and his wife, Jenine, who passed away nearly ten years ago.

“Charles?” Mr. Harden replied. “I’m afraid you have the wrong number, miss, this is the residence of Mr. Carl Harden.”

“No, Charles?” Came the voice, raspy like leaves against stone. “I can hear you, Charles.”

“No, No Charles. Do you hear me? You old bag, there is no one by the name of Charles here. Now you have the wrong number, do not try and call this line again. Do you hear me?” He growled angrily.

There was static, a moment of hesitation, and then, the voice began again.

“Weren’t they beautiful, Charles?” The woman croaked.

“What? Wasn’t what beautiful? What are you talking about?” Snapped Mr. Harden.

“Weren’t they beautiful? Weren’t the flowers beautiful?”

“What flowers are you talking about? I demand you tell me the meaning of all of this.”

“The wedding flowers of course. The roses. The peonies. The Gardenia. Didn’t they look oh so wonderful at the reception?”

At that moment time, as Mr. Harden knew it, stopped. His heart stopped. His mind stopped.

“How did you kn—”

“I miss you, Charles,” the voice interrupted. I miss you. When will you be home, Charles?”

Mr. Harden was speechless. He felt his stomach turn in on itself and heart writhe and twist.

“Charles…” Came the voice. “Charles…”

The world felt as a dream, a nightmare, but Mr. Harden could not wake up, did not return to the world he once knew. 

“Come home to me, Charles,” it beckoned. “114 west sagebrush street. Come home to me, Charles.”

Then, the call ended, and Mr. Harden could hear nothing but the dial and static. Immediately, he put the phone on the hook and rushed to his kitchen. There, in the drawer closest to the fridge, he found he retrieved a yellow phone book and slammed it upon the kitchen table. He flipped through the pages, finding the nearest telephone service and dialed the number on his phone.

It rang for a moment, before a young man picked up on the other line.

“Hello?” He said.

“Hello,” replied Mr. Harden. “Listen closely, I have been receiving calls from a certain person this whole night, and I would appreciate it greatly if you could change my number.”

“Well, are you certain you’d want to change your number? If there’s a—”

“Yes, I am certain,” interrupted Mr. Harden. “I would like to change my number entirely.”

“Okay sir, if you’re sure,” replied the man. “In that case, can you provide me your area code.”

“Yes, it is two-one-six.”

There was a moment of silence, while Mr. Harden could hear the man on the other line type the numbers into his keyboard.

“Sir, are you sure you’ve given me the right area code?” The man asked.

“Yes, I’m positive,” he replied. “Why?”

“Well, I’m seeing here that the service for your area has been disrupted by some sort of storm. In fact, there’s no service at all currently for your area, the lines are all down. You’re positive that is the right area code?”

“Yes, damnit, I know where I live. But if that’s the case, then how am I able to make this call?”

“I really can’t say, sir,” the man replied. “You shouldn’t be able to. No one in your area code should be able to place calls until at least five am according to what I see on my end.”

“I see…” said Mr. Harden.

“If you want, I can—”

But Mr. Harden hung up the phone before the man could finish. There was only one thing that would put his mind at ease. There was only one way for him to feel himself again. He had to know. He dressed himself in a pair of jeans, a warm sweater, and a jacket. He got in his car, opened the garage door, and left, taking with him only a small black flashlight.

“114 west sagebrush street,” he whispered to himself, shining his flashlight at an old city map he had in the glove compartment of his car. It almost sounded familiar. Using the map, he drove to the street the voice had told him. It was dark, and the streets were empty besides the last few straggler trick o'treaters of the neighborhood heading back to their homes, dressed in all manner of crude costumes, and the dim light and hum of the street lamps lining the road. 

Mr. Harden drove for no more than ten minutes before at last reaching his destination on the map. 114 west sagebrush street. He parked on the side of the street and brought with him his flashlight to investigate. However, he found no house, nor building of any kind. Rather, there was a fence, and beyond, primitive stones, etched with words and dates—graves. Mr. Harden’s legs were shaking, his arms were shaking, but he had to know, had to see. So, he pressed on until he found the entrance and then he stepped inside. It was all dark but the single beam of light cast by his flashlight. He knew he had been there before. He knew all too well where he was now, but still he could not believe until he saw. He trudged across dirt, turned to mud by the evening's rain. His light shone on the front of each headstone he passed: “Janet Wilson 1945–1971,” “John Carpenter 1928–1961,” “Shelly Cannison 1965–1989.” Then he saw it. He saw it at last. 

“Mary Jenine Harden 1948-1976.”

It was her. Only her grave was not like the rest. The grass was not like the rest. Not neatly hewn nor green but rather it was torn, wild, as though something beneath the surface had clawed its way out. The earth was upturned and split, small clumps scattered over the edges of the gravestone, roots jutting out like skeletal fingers clutching at the open air. Harden’s breath came shallow, misting the cold night. His flashlight trembled in his hand as he took a step closer, his heart drumming louder with each second.

And then he saw it—a single black wire snaking out from the disturbed soil, half-buried yet unmistakably unnatural against the backdrop of tombstones and withered leaves. It wound away from her grave, weaving between stones and disappearing into the shadows. Harden's hands shook as he traced the line with his eyes, then his feet, drawn forward as if by some invisible pull.

He followed it through the graveyard, the flashlight beam bouncing along the ground, illuminating each twist and turn of the wire as it slipped around headstones, ducked through patches of wild grass, and threaded between gnarled tree roots. It led him farther, until he reached the edge of the graveyard, where the wire crept toward the street. There, under the dim yellow glow of a streetlamp, the wire slithered up, attaching itself to a nearby telephone pole.

His gaze followed it upward, heart lodged in his throat. The wire met with a bundle of others, merging with the mass of telephone cables stretching across the neighborhood. Each line glistened faintly in the light, but his eyes were fixed on that single black cord, stark and wrong against the others, pulsing like a vein carrying a silent message.

Harden took a step back, his pulse thundering in his ears. The truth clawed its way into his mind, cold and sharp, piercing through his disbelief. He felt it—felt her. It had been her voice on the line, calling to him from that broken earth, summoning him with the last whisper of her name. His wife, Jenine, had reached out across that endless divide, her voice tethered to the world by that single, unnatural wire.

In the silence, only the low hum of the wires and the beating of his heart filled the night. He could feel her presence lingering, as if watching from just beyond the graveyard's edge, waiting for him to understand.