For the past three months, Violetta Jones had a recurring dream. It was like a nightmare that really happened many years ago but all evidence had been hidden away. Only the dream's nightly return—vivid as the day that event actually might have happened—was there to stir her memories.
A 42 year-old woman with an 18 year-old son away at the state university and a husband who was frequently away on business ventures, Violetta had time on her hands. Maybe a bit too much time.
She worked part-time as a teller at the town's only bank. Each night for the past six months she'd been returning to an empty house with far too many memories and too little human contact. Television and radio offered limited solace, and on weekends she felt terribly isolated. Sometimes she wished they'd never moved out here from the city, too isolating, and no one nearby to help in the event of a crisis. She often considered moving to a small apartment near the bank but for now, that was just a hope.
The night that triggered her dreams was several months ago, the first time she got the call. It had been storming for several hours and the power was out when her downstairs phone rang. Having just gone to bed, Violetta reluctantly lifted the covers off her almost nude body. She groped her way to the dark winding staircase heading down to the kitchen. There was no light to guide her except the occasional intense flash of lightning outside. The storm seemed to be getting fiercer by the moment.
Shivering from the unusual coldness of her kitchen, Violetta wished she'd worn something warmer than her tiny summer nightgown to bed that night. It couldn't have been more than 60 degrees in her house. A rash of goosebumps suddenly rushed over her exposed flesh. Hoping she could go back to bed quickly, she grabbed for the telephone.
"Hello, is that you, John?" she spoke into the receiver, wondering if maybe it was her son John calling because he felt homesick.
At first, the other end of the phone was deadly silent. As if the caller had already hung up. Violetta listened for a moment longer, heard nothing, and considered hanging up.
"Is anyone there?" she asked one last time.
And then, it began. The sounds of labored breathing, at first barely audible. A subtle groaning sound seemed to come through also, barely discernable above the crackling thunder outside. The breathing grew louder, strange and surreal, with no words to accompany it.
Something kept her listening, wondering, could this be her son? Maybe he's on a cell phone and not able to talk but trying to get through, Violetta thought.
"John is that you..."
"I've been watching you, Mrs. Jones," a dark voice interrupted from the other end.
It was a voice that she'd never heard before, definitely not John's and not her husband's. It sounded like a black man's voice, but she'd never met a black person since moving into that small town two years ago.
"You're all alone in that big house, aren't you Mrs. Jones?"
The voice sounded menacing, yet reassuring at the same moment. As if someone had been watching her and maybe, watching over her.
"Must get scary being all alone there at night, Mrs. Jones. Never know who might try to break in downstairs while you're laying upstairs asleep... And what, with you up there all alone, what would you do, Mrs. Jones? You might not be able to make it to your phone in time, Mrs. Jones. 9-11 is a long way from your bedroom, isn't it, Mrs. Jones?"
[click]
Hanging up the receiver after the caller's abrupt disconnection, Violetta turned to head back upstairs. She tried to shrug off the call, thinking maybe it was a telemarketing scam. After all, she used to get so many calls at dinnertime. But then she'd changed her number, gotten unlisted, and the marketing calls seemed to stop. And this call was at 1:00 in the morning, hardly the time for anyone to be selling something.
Re-entering the bedroom, her mind was whirling. The caller's voice seemed so haunting, so forceful, so intense. Violetta quickly climbed back under the covers and tried to let go of the thoughts that were stirring.
It was 3 a.m. when the phone rang again. Violetta had just drifted off to sleep about an hour earlier, and the ring seemed to jolt her. Lying there for long moments, she considered whether to ignore the phone til it stopped. Outside the storm continued unabated, wind fiercer than earlier. Still no sign of power and the house had grown significantly colder.
Ten rings, eleven rings, twelve rings. She knew it wasn't going to stop. And maybe this time it really *was* John, or maybe even her husband.
She threw off the covers and practically ran down the stairs instinctively, still with no light to guide her way. Now she really was cold, her hardening nipples reminding her of how her body always reacted to a sudden change of temperature.
"Hell..." she began
"Mrs. Jones, you shouldn't let your phone ring for so long before answering. Does it really take that long to get to the phone from your bedroom?"
Violetta shuddered inside as the cold, hard tone of his voice broke through her mental fog. Obviously it was the same caller, and this seemed no practical joke.
"What, what do you want?" Violetta heard herself say.
"It's not what *I* want, Mrs. Jones," the caller spoke in a halting, gruff tone. "It's what *you* want."
"Wh--what do you mean?" she asked, a sense of anxiety and almost pleading innocence in her voice.
