The Texts

Larry was sitting on his bed in his underwear looking at his phone, the glow of which partially lit the room.

“I know what you’re doing” the text message said, the same message he received twice a day, early morning and early evening. The same sender’s number, for three weeks, a Cleveland area code though he lived in San Diego.

At first it was funny, some scam or joke that would go away once he ignored it. But that didn’t happen, it chased him persistently, getting under his skin since he wasn’t doing anything worth comment or observance.

Maybe it was Clayton at work, since Clayton was odd. They didn’t get along, and there had been a strange encounter a day before the messages started. Clayton asked Larry, of all people, to lend a five spot so he could buy 250 paper plates from the dollar store since he was entertaining that night and hadn’t made it to the ATM. Larry, perplexed, honestly explained that he carried no cash. That’s bullshit, Clayton yelled, you’re shitting me! A mad, startling outburst, very close to being HR reportable.

Now on his evening walk, he passed a house where they were barbecuing hamburgers, the scent terrific. His grill was a mess, unused for a long time. Dinners these days were mostly frozen things.

Maybe someone in the neighborhood was behind the texts. He didn’t know many people on the street, kept his property up, held no loud parties. No reason for that scenario, but logic seemed to have lost its foothold. Could it be completely random? One of those Nigerian deals?

He considered blocking the number but the concept was foreign to him, actually frightened him. What if the offender discovered the blockage and decided to continue the harassment in person, leaving notes on his porch?

Two houses away a young woman spoke on her phone in the driveway. She and her husband, or boyfriend, had moved in about a month ago, and were renting. Larry was observant that way.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“What?” Larry stopped and turned. Had she said that to the phone or him? It was uncanny, either way. How could it be a coincidence?

“Hi. I’m Larry, I live down the block.”

“Ok. I’ve seen you walking.”

She didn’t offer a name and was formal. He started thinking, perhaps irrationally, that he needed to learn her number.

“Where’d you move from?”

She was annoyed. “Move? I’m on the phone.”

“Since we’re neighbors, maybe we should exchange numbers. Always a good idea safety-wise.”

She returned to her conversation. And, of course, Larry realized she would never provide her number if it was actually the source of the texts. His approach had been a blunder. But he was jittery, and shocked after hearing that sentence out of the blue.

Yet the urge to look at the phone and search its history enveloped him like a panic attack. After three unrelenting weeks, low-level dread followed him everywhere. He was normally a bit high-strung but was veering into constant anxiety, none of which was fair, he knew. He was not a criminal, nor a beast. Plus, he was getting a sense about this woman, a trembling in his temples.

She walked toward the front door. He took a few steps in her direction. She entered the house and closed the door. He followed. Off the porch was a small open window, likely a bathroom. The light came on, a shower started. This would occupy her for at least five minutes. He made the porch and tried the door. Unlocked. What luck! He entered.

The front room was scantly furnished, as surely was the case with a young couple probably just starting out. She had, no doubt, taken her phone into the bathroom. Nobody that age left their phones lying around, treating the devices as an appendage.

But no, there it was on the coffee table. He couldn’t believe his winning streak, an open door, an available phone. He heard the fan in the bathroom and the water spraying in the shower, picked up the phone and swiped the screen. Locked, password protected, of course. He was stupid, making mistake after bumbling mistake. There was no way someone playing mind games would be so casual with their weapon. He needed to get out before he collapsed.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Larry fumbled the phone, which fell to the floor. “I’m sorry. I … I’m just going to say it. I have this suspicion that you’ve been badgering me with texts, accusing me of something obscure but alarming.”

“You’re crazy. I don’t even know you. How would I have your number?”

“I’m not an internet geek but I’m sure there are ways of finding that out.”

“If I cared. Get out of my house before I call the police.”

“No need for that.” He took a step toward the door, then swiveled. “I really do apologize. Can you just level with me? Is it you?”

She pulled a gun from her robe pocket.

“Good god.” He turned and almost tripped.

“Wait!” she yelled. “Face me.”

“I broke into your house, I’m sorry. But this harassment is making me unhinged. If it’s not you, I’ll leave it alone. A gun? Christ!”

“Come here.”

He lunged fast enough to knock her down and flip the gun away. Straddling her, he wheezed, “Please let me go.”

“I know you want to rape me.” Nearly losing consciousness, he grabbed her with both hands at the throat and pressed. She laughed. He squeezed harder, then let go.

“This is not me. I’m so sorry.”

“You ruin little boys.”

He slumped. “What?”

“We know you, what you did to my husband. And we found you.”

“Found me?” He rolled off her while she retook the pistol and pulled him back by the shirt sleeve, placing the gun to his chest, firing.

A bit later, sitting on the rented couch, she talked on the cell with her husband. “The police are on their way. I’m sorry. Sometimes your hand is forced. It was just the right time, sorry I took away your act of vengeance.”

She listened, then laughed. “Yes, you’ll get over it. But at least we got him.”

She nodded, then stopped. “You’re what? Pretty sure? Pretty sure it was … Jesus, babe. Yeah, I know you were so young, I know. And I trust our research.”

She felt slightly ugly.

“Anyway,” she perked up, “his fingerprints are all over my phone. And, I mean, the Ring camera, come on, what he was thinking? Goddamn walked right into it.

“Yes, very provocative, left my robe half open, the way you love it, the way that makes me so uncomfortable. He even lunged at me, got on top of me, the dunce. All on video, no sound.

“And I had told plenty of people how he looked at me on those walks, so it’s a snap.”

She glanced at the corpse and the red stains on the recently shampooed carpet.

“I hope they don’t leave the body around forever. But you better stop for Chinese, no cooking tonight. Then we can discuss going home. Hated this move. California, yuck. Love you.”

After hanging up, she started thinking about her Golden Retriever that was killed by a car in front of her eyes when she was 13. That produced the needed tears as a knock came on the door.

BIO: Chris Callard lives in Long Beach, CA. His short fiction has appeared in Maudlin House, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Gorko Gazette, 10 by 10 Flash Fiction Stories, Friday Flash Fiction, Bright Flash Literary Review, Ariel Chart, and Gemini Magazine. His poems have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, Little Old Lady, Doublespeak, Oddball Magazine, Spillwords, Beach Chair Press, Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, The Writing Disorder, and Ariel Chart. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions. https://callb3.wixsite.com/collectedworkschrisc

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