MicroHorror

I drive past the cornfields every morning, the spot where she was murdered. Coming home in the evenings I pass it too. Her killer is still on the loose. I look into the rearview mirror. Her death haunts me.

The cornfields… I blast the music and keep the windows up for fear that I might hear the whispers among the stalks. Still I half expect to see her stagger out onto the road, limping, her skull crushed, screeching with wild eyes as I pass by. Like a child I turn on the dome light. Nothing. No icy fingers curling around my throat. No eyes staring back. The car is bare.

Every morning it’s the same.

Checking the night’s messages. Passing the numbers her entry appears on the screen. It hasn’t really sunk in. I just spoke with her a few days back. We were supposed to get together for breakfast, catch up on old times. There, like it wasn’t real, her name stares back, “Emily Privett,” 404-555-8…

It’s still dark out. Passing the road. No staggering corpse. My thumb hovers and my breathing becomes shallow. What would happen if you called a dead person’s cell phone? I punch in the block code and begin to sweat. I push call.

Waiting. The signal is always bad through here. I expect an “out of service” message.

Ringing. I want to hang up but don’t. I would never tell anyone that I’m doing this. The dark monster inside of me has to know, though–always has to know what would “it” be like, the taboo on the other side.

Ringing. Hairs stand on the back of my neck. Muffled sounds coming through. It–it can’t be! The sound of a deep breath…

Then… “Hi, this is Emily Privett. Please leave a message and I’ll…”

I shiver and hang up. Her voice is so vibrant, so alive. God, I miss her. It’s not real, I keep telling myself. It’s not real. I feel angry and wonder why her family hasn’t canceled the account. They have had more important things to do, I suppose, than cancel her cell phone. It shakes me to hear her voice though, to remember her face. I look into the rearview again. Nothing.

That evening I shower before bed. The day seems to wash away as well. In for the night. I watch a cooking show and prepare to turn in.

My wife removes her cloth robe and lies down next to me.

The television whispers in the night.

“No service calls tonight?” Her voice is stoic. “Anything you want to tell me?”

“Nope,” I reply, “just my nine to five.”

“Right.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “Whatever.”

I take a deep breath; I know when she is baiting me. “What…” I say without turning over.

“You had a call,” she says as she reaches to turn off the lamp.

“And…”

“Young girl. Emily… She says she’ll catch you in the morning.”