You lean back in your chair, drumming your fingers absently on the armrest as your gaze drifts over the ceiling. It’s plain black, like the walls, the floor, the sofas and pretty much everything else in the room. This is not surprising because you are in my house. My house is entirely silver and black.
It’s sparsely decorated, too, and you find no intricacy in the single, monotone acrylic painting hanging in the precise center of the wall, nor in the plain velvet sofas. You roll your head back and let out a heavy sigh, contemplating the overall boringness of life in general. I have left the room quite a while ago — the oddly audible ticking of the clock that punctuates the silence is testament to the endless wait. Your bag is in the other room, and my phone sits on the couch across from you. There is nothing to entertain you.
You kick your legs up onto the table, slumping in your seat with your chin tucked against your chest. In the silence you will hear me coming ages before I reach the room, allowing you sufficient time to gather yourself into a more presentable position, for this is our third meeting and you aren’t brash enough to go slouching in your natural state around me yet.
You’re questioning what it means to twiddle your thumbs (you’ve read the phrase enough times in books, but what does the action really entail?) and wonder if you can thumb-wrestle yourself, when a flat, emotionless voice breaks you out of your thoughts.
It’s faint and distant, but most certainly there, and it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up. Because it’s growing closer and closer and the words are becoming horrendously clear.
You jump in your seat, falling disgracefully to the floor, but you barely feel it as the voice grows ever louder.
You’re frozen now, your heart hammering in your throat as sweat beads on your forehead.
The voice is almost screeching, roaring in your ears like the crack of thunder, pushing its way in like the sea in a storm.
“Someone’s calling. Someone’s calling. Someone’s calling. Someone’s calling.”
Your hands are shaking where they’re clutching your jacket. You want to run, tear from the room and never look back, but you’re frozen with fear. The voice is louder, closer, impassive, and possibly the most frightful thing you’ve ever experienced in your pathetically short life. You can’t die now. Not here. Not like this. You try to scream, but your throat has gone dry.
And then the voice goes finally, mercifully, quiet, but it does nothing to calm you.
The door swings open, making you leap to your feet and promptly return to the floor with a shriek. I stand in the doorway, a vengeful smile twisting my features, for yet another victim has fallen prey to my custom ringtone.