“Hello? Who is this?”
My voice was barely above a whisper, and I wondered if I’d be able to hear a response over the pounding of my heart. I was staring at the page, but was tensed for any sound or motion from any corner of the shadowy bedroom. As the seconds crawled by, my mind began trying to weakly interject that maybe it was nothing after all. Maybe the word had been there already and we just hadn’t…
No. That was bullshit. Maybe I’d missed the fingerprint or thumbprint or whatever it was, but not writing on the very first page. Plus there had been that sound, which I now imagined was the sound of some ghost pencil scritch-scratching the greeting to me.
Maybe that was it. I needed to write back instead of talking to it like it was a fucking smart phone. I checked the bedside table’s drawers, but they were empty aside from a t.v. remote and an old phone charger. Then I remembered that I might still have a pen from the last time I’d used my suitcase—it had been a work trip, and I thought I’d crammed some miscellaneous pens and notepads into one of the side pockets. Sure enough, I found two plastic ballpoints squirreled away underneath some socks and underwear. Heart still thundering, I went back to the bed and picked up the notebook with a pen in hand.
Hello? Who is this?
I sat for close to ten minutes waiting for a response, but there was none. Finally giving up, I put the book back on the nightstand and—leaving the light on—tried to go back to sleep. That was easier said than done. I was waiting to hear that scratching sound again, and more than once I flipped open the book to make sure something hadn’t been silently written in response to my question. It wasn’t until after the sun was starting to peek in my window that I finally fell back to sleep.
“Well, you look like dogshit.”
I snickered at Lena. “Good morning to you too.”
She snorted. “Good morning passed you by half an hour ago. I was going to let you sleep another half hour and then come check if you were dead.”
I glanced at the microwave and then back at her. “Shit. My bad. I didn’t mean to sleep that long. I’m sorry.”
She waved away the apology. “No biggie. Just go get dressed and let’s grab some lunch. I know a good taco bar you’ll like and I’m starving.”
Thirty minutes later and we were stuffing our faces between telling each other funny and irritating stories from our respective jobs. Lena was a pediatrician and I was a marketing analyst at a PR firm, so you’d think our stories would be wildly different from each other. And some were, of course, but most of them weren’t that far apart. Because at the end of the day, the stories were about people. And at the end of the day, most people just weren’t that compli…
“Make sure you give that stuff back, okay?”
I glanced up at Lena, confused both by what she’d said and the worried look on her face. “What?”
She frowned slightly as she waggled her fingers at me as though to ward off something distasteful. “The books. The weird books you found. Make sure you give them to that lady as soon as you get back.”
I shot her a dark look. “Lena, I shoplifted once. Once. And I was fifteen at the time. It was a stupid kid move, okay? Jesus. I’m not some fucking thief, and I don’t need you mother henning me about it.”
My sister looked ready to argue, but instead she took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. And I’m not saying you’d keep it. It’s more…I don’t know. I kept thinking about them last night and today. They creep me out.” She shot me an embarrassed smile. “You know me—I don’t believe in all that spooky shit. But that’s what made this so weird.”
I let out a small laugh I hoped sounded genuine. “Lena, there’s nothing to them. Just some old book and a weird journal or whatever.” When she didn’t look convinced, I added. “But yeah, I’ll give them to Mrs. Abrams as soon as I get back.”
She nodded, looking slightly relieved. “Good.”
I was close to mentioning the writing I’d seen the night before when Lena spoke up again.
“You know, I almost woke you up last night and asked you to go put those books back in your car.” She blushed a little. “The idea of them in the house kind of makes my skin crawl, stupid as that is.”
I felt a mixture of guilt and worry curdling in my belly. I’d looked at the notebook again that morning, but there was still nothing beyond that initial “Hello” and my response. Now I definitely wasn’t telling her about it—it would only make her worry more. But the fact that she was worried somehow spooked me more than the strangeness of the writing itself. Because she was right—she didn’t buy into anything otherworldly, and she didn’t scare easily. Whatever was going on with the book, I needed to stay out of it, and get it away from me as soon as possible.
When I left my sister’s that afternoon, I had every intention of giving Mrs. Abrams the books when I made it home. It wasn’t until I stopped for gas along the way that I decided I should check the book one last time. I pulled the notebook out of my bag, feeling my hands tingling slightly as I flipped open the cover.
Hello
Hello? Who is this?
Albert Mulhaven. I need
I fumbled with the book as my hands began to shake. Gripping it tighter, I moved over to be more directly under one of the bright white lights above the gas pumps. That’s what it said, in grey letters like the first, but newly written since I’d packed the notebook up a couple of hours earlier. Lena was right. There was something wrong with all this. I needed to give it to Abrams and be done.
Still, that voice of reason in my head lacked conviction, and by the time I reached the house, I found myself turning into my own driveway instead of Abrams’ across the street. I’d just sleep on it, I told myself. Sleep on it and…well, maybe see if it would write back if I wrote again.
A knock on my window made me jump. Looking up, I saw a teenage boy with long hair and swarms of acne on both cheeks staring at me unhappily. I only rolled the window down far enough to ask what he wanted. Looking irritated, he looked back down at his phone before glancing back up at me.
“Um, is this 129 Cypress Lane?”
I shook my head. “No, this is 130. I think 129 is my landlady’s house. The big one across the road.” I pointed in the general direction of the other house. “Did you try there yet?”
“Nah, not yet, man. Er, sir. Thank you for the help.” He was turning to walk back toward the road, and glancing in my rearview I could see an old, beat-up green hatchback parked on the shoulder next to my driveway. The kid looked harmless enough, but it still seemed odd. I didn’t remember ever seeing anyone over at Abrams’ house in the time that I’d lived across from her, and it wouldn’t hurt to make sure he had some legitimate reason for bothering her.
“Hey, why are you looking for that house?”
The boy stopped in his tracks, another irritated look passing across his face briefly before he could hide it. “Groceries. I drop off groceries for customers. But I’ve never been out here before, so…” He shrugged. “Anyway, got to get to it. Thanks.”
Nodding absently, I watched in the rearview as he trundled back to his car and drove over to the big house across the road. True to his word, he came back out of the car carrying what looked like several plastic bags of groceries as he made his way to the large front door.
Satisfied that he wasn’t up to anything nefarious, I grabbed my own bag and went inside.
I wanted to write something back right away, but I held off. I needed to be careful with this, and I didn’t want to waste time with stupid questions. He said he was Mulhaven, fair enough. But what did that mean? How was Mulhaven writing through the book? Was is some kind of science experiment gone wrong? Was he a ghost? Was the book some weird kind of old-fashioned looking but actually high-tech tablet or something?
I wanted answers to all those questions, but in the end I decided to focus on what he had already said.
What do you need?
I was staring at the book, waiting for a response, when I heard a quiet but sharp rapping at my door. Much like in the car, I jumped, but this time I almost ignored it. I wanted to be looking when the response came. Did it get written out by an unseen hand, or did it just fade in like the old spy ink I used to have as a kid?
Another knock. Muttering to myself, I pulled out my phone and propped it to where the camera would see the page before pressing record. It wasn’t the best angle or lighting, but it would have to do. If it was that stupid kid again…
It wasn’t. When I opened the door, I saw Mrs. Abrams standing there looking hot and flustered. I raised an eyebrow as I took a step back.
“Hey. Are you okay? You seem a bit out of breath.”
She wiped a damp string of hair off her forehead and gave me a smile. “No, no. I’m fine. I had food delivered and just finished putting it all where it needed to go.” She raised thin, black penciled eyebrows at me. “That’s why I came over here actually. I was going to invite you over for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll make a roast.”
I tried to hide my confusion. I’d hardly exchanged more than ten minutes of conversation with Abrams since the day I moved in. Why was she suddenly inviting me to come eat with her? “There’s no need to go to trouble like that. I…”
She was shaking her head. “No, no. Nonsense. It’s no trouble and I’ll enjoy the company. Besides, you’re a good tenant and I think that deserves something,” Abrams cut her eye toward me and chuckled. “Even if it’s only a bit of overly-dry meat.”
I nodded awkwardly, and apparently satisfied, Abrams said good night and told me to come over at seven before ambling back the way she’d came. Closing the door, I glanced back into the living room where the notebook still lay open. Was it my imagination, or was something new written there?
Walking fast, I went back toward the…
I woke up on the floor next to the coffee table. Had I fallen or passed out? Reaching for my phone, I saw that it was after midnight. It had been what? Nine or so when Abrams had come over? And then I’d shut the door and seen the notebook and was going to check to see if there was anything new written because it had look like there was and…
There was. Just another single word.
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Credits
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