He was awoken by the sound of the telephone, but not his telephone. He sat up, his eyes glued shut by the sleep that still attempted to drag him back into the bed, where it could smother him. He fancied what it would be like to let it, but the telephone would not remain unanswered. It was for him, and he should go to it.
He swung his legs out of bed, wincing at the coldness of the floor. The bare floorboards almost icy to the sole, causing his toes to curl, each digit gaining sentience and wishing to to preserve what heat it had. His head swam, and his eyes were only half open when he stood, steadying himself by gripping the bed post, something that
I’ve done recently
he had done countless times before.
The telephone. For it rang still.
He rubbed at his eyes after steadying himself, the vestiges of sleep retaining what grip they could, like ivy, it was stubborn and had hooked itself firmly to his eyelids. Eventually he was able to open his eyes anew, seeing the world in which he inhabited for the first time that day and for the first time of every day. At first he wondered when he had closed his blinds, unable to recall the act before falling to slumber the previous night. The blinds had most definitely been open when he had investigated the noises, yet he didn’t know if he had closed them after.
He moved across the bedroom and entered his living room. The sunlight weak from behind the heavy blinds, the shrill ringing closer now. He looked around the room, looking for the source of the sound yet couldn’t see it, nor could he think of where the phone would be. Then he saw it, lying face down on the thick carpet, partially obscured by the heavy pile. He walked over to it, blindly cursing whoever was calling him at this hour. He had no idea what hour it was, however any hour before that in which he was actually awake in, was too early.
One foot on to the carpet, recoiling at once at how it felt against his skin. The cold floorboards were one thing, but this carpet was actually wet, if not soaked through. He moved quickly to his phone and picket it up, grimacing when his fingers brushed agains the carpet. Bending low to pick up the device meant he also got a lungful of the foul damp smell emitted from the pile, like old standing water, clogged with dead weed and worse. Something must have leaked from somewhere, and he would investigate it properly after he answered his phone. He couldn’t think straight with this damn incessant ringing.
The screen was blank. His phone was off.
Of course, it was out of charge. So it could not be ringing.
It wasn’t. The sound wasn’t even coming from this part of his flat. When he looked around, he realised that it wasn’t even coming from inside his flat at all.
There, beyond the door. Adam moved off the carpet quickly, letting the phone fall with a wet slopping sound, like he had just dropped something heavy into a bowl of custard. As he drew nearer the door his eyes adjusted more to the gloom of the living room, and he noticed that this was not how he had left it at all. In fact, he couldn’t seem to recognise any part of it. The furniture - apart from the table under which lay his phone - was in different locations, and appeared older, more traditional as opposed to his softer more modern furnishings. The side table to the right of the door was Art Deco in style, and was under what appeared to be a large heavy blanket, with only a little of the piece exposed. He didn’t recall purchasing such a piece. Nor did he remember the hat and coat stand on the other side of the door. It too, seemed to be under a blanket of sorts.
The phone. Whoever was calling was persistent, he had to hand them that. He would have hung up a long time before now.
His hand wrapped around the door handle, cold to the touch and coated in something fairly unpleasant that had the slightest scent of ammonia. He attempted to turn it but didn’t seem to be able to have any purchase, his hand sliding across the knob, leaving the handle unturned. The phone was ringing from just the other side of the door. He took a step back and exhaled slowly. For some unknown but very definitive reason, he had to answer the telephone. He just had to.
A few steps back. Building himself up. He was on the carpet, foul beneath his feet. The door looked weak, but it was a front door. It would be built to withstand impact. Nevertheless. It had to be opened.
“One,” he began to count aloud. His voice sounded strange, alien.
“Two.”
He jumped lightly on the spot, rolling his shoulders back. Moving his head from side to side like an athlete.
“Three.”
Five steps forward, quickly. With power in his legs. He turned to the side and bent low, pushing forward with his shoulder. Bracing himself .
The door gave far easier than he expected, coming part as he brought the bulk of his weight into it. If anything, he reapplied that he had given it too much power. He felt it give way to him, bending before he pushed through it. He had expected hard protestation. At the best a loud crack as the wood began to splinter. Not this. He stepped through into the space beyond too quickly, having to outstretch his hands and grab hold of the railing before him, the only thing that stopped him from taking a step into nothing. It too began to give way as the momentum carried him into it.
Pulling himself back at the last, he stopped from going too far forward. The railing was stronger than the door, and it held, allowing him to catch himself. He leaned out over the break beyond, staring down into a dizzying illusion of impossible geometry. It spun before him before settling into the familiar sight of a stairwell descending into green then black. No lights below. Not this time. Nonetheless, he didn’t want to see, because even in that brief moment, he felt something looking up at him from below.
Step back. Another. Firm ground. The phone was ringing from somewhere behind him, over his shoulder. Against the wall, beside the door to his apartment. It as an old telephone, with a separate mouthpiece and receiver. Brushing the sodden remnants of the door off his shoulders he picked both mouthpiece and receiver and brought them near to him.
“Hello?” His voice sounded off still. Wet.
“It’s me,” the voice on the other end of the line said. It too sounded off.
Liquidy
“Who’s me?” Adam asked, already sure that he knew.
“You know,” the voice replied, “turn around.”
Adam had the distinct feeling that turning around was the last thing he wanted to do. Something shifted around his ankles and he glanced down to see a lone tendril of Ivy. The space in which he stood, so dark and quiet, was suddenly illuminated, causing him to look up, and see far above him a greenish glow, something bright behind dark glass.
“Turn around,” the voice said again. As though whomever was speaking was attempting to gargle with something at the same time. “Turn around.”
“Adam hung the mouthpiece on the receiver, placing the phone back on a shelf that was sagging, wet, as ivy crawled up the wall before his eyes.
Don’t turn around. Just step right and go forward. Walk across that horridly wet carpet and go back to your room. Go to bed. If you go to bed, you’ll wake up.
He began to step right.
“Turn around,” the mealy voice behind him said.
“No,” Adam replied, only his voice too, was coming from behind him.
It was then that a hand clamped on his shoulder and he began to scream.
No comments:
Post a Comment