The Ringing Phone
1-6-09

Genevieve stared at the old telephone in silence. She tried to swallow but her throat was too dry. Her eyes travelled along the phone’s tangled cable to its frayed end. She turned to the vacant jack in the wall. The phone was not connected; it couldn’t have been. Yet the phone had rung. Genevieve had heard it ring three times, in that high-pitched cacophonous way in which only an ancient rotary phone could ring. The ringing had startled her so much that she had dropped the paint roller she’d been holding and splattered her T-shirt with butter cream colored semi-gloss.

It was obvious the phone hadn’t received a call in ages. Its pistachio color was faded, its rotary wheel was scuffed and its spiral cable was blackened with at least twenty years of grime. It sat in the corner of an empty bedroom the size of a broom closet, covered in dust, a discarded relic of the 1970’s. The phone had been there when Genevieve moved into the house two days ago, and she hadn’t yet bothered to throw it away. Now she found herself wishing she had.

Genevieve wiped her butter cream spattered hand on her jeans and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. She had no missed calls. Of course she did. Her ring tone was Madonna’s Borderline, not “Retro Phone #3.” The ringing she’d heard must have come from the dusty pistachio phone in the corner, despite the fact that it had last been plugged into the wall during the Carter administration, and that its cable was torn and frayed.

With a deep breath, Genevieve went back to her painting, convinced that she must have imagined the ringing. Her roller had barely made contact with the wall when the phone rang again. Genevieve froze; butter cream paint dripped onto her Converse sneakers. It rang again. She looked at the wall jack. The phone still wasn’t plugged in. Another ring. It had only rung three times before. Genevieve closed her eyes and waited for it to stop. It rang yet again.

Genevieve’s hand shook as she placed her paint roller back in the tray. The phone rang again. She stepped toward it slowly, listening to her own heartbeat racing in her head. Another ring. She knelt down on the floor beside the phone. More ringing. She grasped the receiver and slowly brought it to her ear. The sound of static on the other end made her drop it. She covered her mouth and screamed into her hands. She could hear static coming through the pistachio receiver as it lay on the floor. Before she could stop it, her hand jerked forward and hung up the phone. Then her legs were moving; she was running. She found herself in the kitchen, leaning over the sink and panting.

None of it made any sense. It didn’t make sense that the old phone was ringing, and it made even less sense that Genevieve was afraid of it. It was just a junky old phone, a piece of garbage left by her home’s previous owner. She should have just taken it out to the trash where it belonged. Yes, that’s what she would do.

Genevieve stared down the hallway at the door to her spare room. She imagined herself walking into the room, picking up the offending telephone and carrying it outside, dropping it in her trash can and closing the lid. She imagined the trash truck coming and crushing the phone with its massive metal teeth. A smile crossed her face. How silly she was being, getting all worked up over an old rotary phone.

The phone rang again, even more high-pitched and cacophonous than before. Genevieve gasped and clung to her kitchen counter for support and, oddly enough, protection. It rang again. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Please stop. Please stop. Please please stop!” It rang again.

Genevieve knew there was only one way to stop a phone from ringing: answer it. She pried herself away from the counter and walked slowly down the hall. Another ring. She entered the spare room and watched the old phone shake as it rang again. Dust particles leapt from it and floated into the air. Genevieve reached for the receiver with one trembling hand and lifted it to her ear.

“Hel—hello?” She croaked into the static.

“It’s mine,” said a crackling deep voice. “Give it back to me.”

Genevieve’s throat was as dry as a desert, but she forced herself to reply, “Who—who is this?”

“It’s mine,” the voice repeated. “Give it back.”

“Look, I don’t know where you got this number, but you’d better stop calling here!” Genevieve commanded. She almost felt more angry than scared, angry at the old phone for frightening her with its ringing, and angry at this disembodied voice for having the audacity to order her around. It hadn’t even said “hello.”

“Give it back,” the voice said calmly.

“You’ve got the wrong number,” said Genevieve. “I don’t know you and I don’t have anything of yours! Now stop calling!”

“Give it back,” the voice demanded again. “Give it back, or else.”

“Stop calling me or I’m calling the police!” Genevieve yelled, choking back cold tears of fear and frustration.

“Or else,” said the voice.

“Stop it!” Genevieve screamed. “Whatever it is, I’m not giving it back now because you’ve pissed me off! You can go to hell!” She slammed the receiver down and gathered up the old telephone with its tangled cable and carried it out to the trash. “Or else my ass!” She shouted as she slammed the lid down on her trash can. “I’m finishing my painting.”

As she stomped back to her spare room, Genevieve could have sworn she heard faint static following behind her.

* * *

“You say the previous owner disappeared?” Jeff asked the real estate agent as he walked down the hall.

The agent nodded. “I sold her the house myself. Nice young lady. It’s a strange story. Two days after she moved in, the police got a nine-one-one call from this address, but all they heard on the line was static. When they got to the house, there was nobody here, and the phone wasn’t even plugged in. No one’s heard from her since… Ah, here’s the second bedroom. As you can see, it’s very cozy. Just needs a lick of paint here and there.”

They stepped into an empty room the size of a broom closet with three white walls and one that was half-painted in a buttery yellow. In one corner was an old green rotary phone with a torn cable. The agent looked down at the phone and furrowed her brow. “What is that doing there?” She asked no one in particular. “I thought I threw that away.”