WRONG NUMBER
by
James C. Clar
Teddy Moynihan discovered the old, black Bakelite phone in the basement while he was doing some spring-cleaning. The thing weighed a ton and had a big rotary dial. It looked like something a 1940's private-eye, Sam Spade or maybe Phil Marlowe, would have on his desk in one of those old movies Teddy loved to watch. After cleaning and polishing it, he placed the phone on a table in his living room next to an antique Zenith radio he had found last year at a yard sale. The two items looked great together. The Zenith worked marvelously. In fact, it had better sound than any of the other, newer radios in the house. As for the phone, well, its connection terminated in two old, bare wires. There was no way he was going to fiddle around with that. Maybe at some point he'd see about having it repaired. For now, he'd enjoy the instrument as an object d'art .
Teddy's house had been built in the late 1890's. He picked it up for a song at a government auction. Vacant for nearly two decades, it had been in need of some restoration. Even so, he was smitten by the hardwood floors, the leaded glass and the gumwood trim. They just didn't build them like that anymore. Although his home improvement skills were as limited as his budget – the freelance writing gig could be tough – Teddy was nevertheless quite proud of the way the old place had turned out. He'd be paying for it for years, but he knew that he could sell out at any time for far more than he had invested. The neighborhood was being gentrified and the values were skyrocketing.
True, the place was a little quirky. From time to time he smelled what he felt sure was cigarette smoke. Teddy wasn't a smoker, never had been. Sometimes at night he thought he heard footsteps in the attic and on the back stairs leading from the kitchen to the second floor. But, then, old houses were notorious for making noises. They settled and shifted, moaned and groaned in the wind and as the temperature fluctuated inside and out. There was nothing supernatural about it. It was part of the charm after all.
One evening Teddy sat down in his favorite chair with a glass of wine. The Zenith was picking up a station from Canada that was playing big band music. At his feet was a box of old papers and letters he had also found in the basement. He had no sooner started going through them before the phone rang. Not the cordless gizmo that sat in a base station on the end table to his left, but the old clunker that was displayed so prominently on the table to his right. Teddy nearly pissed himself. The old phone wasn't even connected to anything. Holy Mother of God! He thought his heart was going to pop right out of his chest. He reached out and, with his hand shaking like a signal light in a windstorm, he picked up the heavy black handset.
“Hello.”
“Margaret? Is that you? It's Eleanor.”
“I'm sorry” Teddy said, a slight quiver in his voice. He couldn't believe this was happening. The old phone must have picked up a cellular signal somehow. “You must have a wrong number.”
“Wrong number,” the woman calling herself Eleanor replied, “it can't be. I talked to Margaret at this number last night. We talk every night.”
“Well, this is going to sound strange, but you've dialed a number that I'm sure is disconnected. In fact, the phone I'm talking to you on isn't even plugged in.”
“What are you talking about young man? You should be ashamed of yourself, playing pranks on an old lady. My eyesight isn't what it used to be. Maybe I did misdial.” With that the line went dead.
Teddy chuckled to himself as he checked to verify that the phone was not in fact connected. Shrugging his shoulders he sipped his wine and dug back into that box of old documents. The radio was playing Ella Fitzgerald's rendition of “Bewitched.”
It took him ten minutes to sort through all of the papers. One item caught his eye. It was a utility bill from 1982 bearing his current address. The payer was someone named “Margaret Stone.” ‘Margaret', now that's funny Teddy thought. He felt a slight chill begin to seep down the back of his neck. He'd never known the name of the old woman who had owned the house previously.
The next thing he unearthed was a yellowed newspaper clipping. Desiccated and still redolent of nicotine it told the story of someone named Eleanor Fetch who had been killed in her home two streets away by a burglar back in 1985. No, Teddy thought as goose bumps appeared on his arms, it can't be. It must be a coincidence. There's no way!
Teddy finished his wine and tried to clam down. He laughed again at the utter improbability of it all; ‘Margaret' and ‘Eleanor' were fairly common names. Maybe not as common these days as they once were, but still common enough. He put those pesky papers back in the box and leaned over to turn off the radio. Just as his hand reached the on/off knob, the Bakelite demon of a phone rang again. Nearly paralyzed with fear, he nevertheless picked up the entire accursed thing and carried it through the kitchen and out the back door. Reaching the trash can, he lifted the lid and dropped the phone inside. He re-sealed the container and, wiping his hands on his pants, he went back into the house. He could still faintly hear a jarring, metallic ringing as he closed the door. Back in the kitchen it smelled like someone had just extinguished a cigarette. Maybe it was time to sell the old place after all!
James C. Clar is a teacher and writer from upstate New York. His book reviews, author interviews and articles appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His short fiction has been published in HACKWRITERS, LONG STORY SHORT, WORD CATALYST, POWDER BURN FLASH, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM and the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE.