Ring, Ring, Ring

TRIGGER WARNINGS accidental murder, uncanny, being replaced.

ARCHIVIST:
Statement of Albert, regarding his sister’s death. Statement begins.

ALBERT:
My sister died. I confirmed it before I came here. I- I went to her grave.

The fog was wistful as I stood still, a cold enveloping me as I stared at the tombstone ahead of me. Mold was stuck and tacky against the stone as the cemetery seemed forever damp- just slightly moist. The name “Abigail Baker” burned itself into my mind as I kept staring at it. Abigail, my sister. Her grave- sitting in the Lexington Cemetery- dead from a freak accident. She’s buried, she’s dead and she’s lying inside a grave and yet phone calls keep appearing, someone claiming to be her! Abigail Baker, dead six years ago. I don’t know why, I don’t know who’s on the other side of them. But they’re just like her- and they know her. They look and sound like her.

I’m a sane man, I’ve never taken medication and I’ve seen a therapist, all they said was that I had depression. Even after her death, I wallowed of course, but I never hallucinated. I lived normally… kind of. Not really, but I am normal, or is it was normal? Get all preconceived notions of who you think I am or who I am. I am as sane as the next person.

I tell you this because the story I am about to tell sounds not from a man who is sane.

I had a twin, one Abigail Baker. She was as normal as your average 16-year-old girl, a fan of boating, surfing and the beach. I am very much the same, I liked driving the boat and she liked fishing. On weekends, we’d take out the boat and spend an entire Sunday underneath the sun and it served as an outlet. A few hours away from the loud cacophony of the everyday world that we lived in. That was our Sundays… a few hours of us and the silence of the ocean. Nothing but the sound of waves crashing against our boat and the occasional small talk.

I loved Sundays, spending time with my sister and the ocean. It was a nice break, the only way we could relax. This all came crashing down! It was ruined! One Sunday afternoon, we didn’t check the weather. It started out nice and sunny and Abigail reclined on a chair as she cast her fishing rod into the water and waited. I sipped some soda as we listened to the radio, songs from the 50s. It was pleasant, the smell of ocean water and fish creepily similar to what I would call home.

The gentle quiet was soon interrupted by what we could describe as thunder, loud and booming as the heavy rumble of clouds began to fill the air.

“We should leave.” she told me, and I can’t say I disagreed. I started up the boat and began to steer us to shore as the soft sounds of rain against the metal sounded from around us.

“Mhm.” I replied, nothing else said besides those four words. We should leave. Mhm. The final words to each other.

It began to fill with fog, though it was still light so I didn’t have much reason to worry. I navigated in the light fog before, wasn’t ideal but it was do-able. Though within what seemed like five minutes, the radio began to become nothing but static and the fog became supernaturally thicker within seconds, filling the light fog with heavy, hard-to-navigate fog. We still said nothing, this wasn’t anything panic worthy and she trusted me.

I don’t know why she trusted me.

I think ten or so minutes passed by as the feeling of fear and dread built up in my stomach, heavy and painful as the soft pitter-patter of rain transformed into something loud and overwhelming. I screamed, hearing her call out my name as she fought against the wind and air.

The water around us became a prison, a jail- a vortex of unknown darks in the infinite bottomless pathway to hell that we called our hiking trail to freedom. I could almost laugh at our naivety.

I began to hear whispers, a song in the fog as she, the fog, began to whisper and scream and good god she was loud. The screaming was screeching at this point, telling me something I can’t even describe, some whale song of agony and fear and languages beyond our human comprehension.

I don’t know why- I don’t know how, but I let go of the wheel. I don’t know why- I don’t know how, but I walked over to my sister and she yelled something at me. I don’t know why, but I pushed her over the water. The fog got heavier, as she, the fog, whispered gently. It was now a mother’s embrace as she quietly held me, and pushed me too.

Abigail died. It was a tragic freak accident and she died.

It was a tragic freak accident and it wasn’t me and I didn’t push her.

It’s been six years since then, and I haven’t gone a single day not thinking about her. About my sister, about the face she had as she yelled for help, the fog lifting as I screamed her name. She’s been dead for six years, and not a single day went by easier.

I know, blah blah stages of grief, all the stuff the therapists and psychologists told me. I never went through that, not even for a second. All I felt was depression, guilt- maybe the stages of grief are different when you’re the murderer. I don’t know. I remember dropping out of school, becoming absorbed in my guilt, it ate me alive like a parasite. I swear I didn’t mean to kill her, I told myself that though the face in the mirror that looked at me was that of a murderer.

I killed Abigail.

Three weeks ago, I got a phone call from... Brighton. I thought maybe it was one of my childhood friends contacting me (maybe from my Facebook?) I picked up my phone as it rang, the number bright as the fog from six years ago filled my bedroom. I answered the phone.

“Hello?” I asked, my voice tight and quiet. I never liked phone calls- it made me uneasy
.
“Albert?” I heard a woman say from the other side of the call. I furrowed my brows in wonder- who is this woman? Why does she sound so familiar? I’m sure you know this now- know who this woman was.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Abigail, your sister!” she said, her voice cheery and singsong. My heart started to pound and my ears began to ring. The fog got thicker.

“Is this a joke!?” I asked, enraged.

“No? I wanted to know how my Albert was doing!”

“That’s… not funny.” She was dead, I saw it with my own two eyes. She drowned and died so many years ago. I know that.
“Hmmm? What?” she asked, her voice tainted with genuine confusion. I swear the fog was so thick it became hard to breathe.

“Abigail is dead, who is this!?”

“Albert, do you...are you? Are you on drugs?!”

“I think I might be.” I laughed, she sounded her concern once more as I continued to laugh. She was dead, she was gone and Abigail was nothing but a faded memory. She was gone, and Abigail called me on my phone six years after that Sunday.

“Albert, I’m coming over to visit, you know? I’m coming over, and things will be good! For Thanksgiving, I just wanted to ask… if there was anything you wanted me to bring from here? Any gifts I can bring you?”

“You’re dead. You died.”

“Al?”

I hung up and I cried that night.

Everyday I got another call from that dreaded number, staring at me with its bright white against blue as it vibrated. No matter how much I blocked the number, it kept calling me. Kept coming back like it had a personal vendetta.

I spent the next two weeks in bed, staring at the ceiling as my mother and father brought me food before leaving without a word. I didn’t move, didn’t speak, only listened as my heart thumped and my breathing slowed until those dreaded rings came from my phone. No matter how much I put my phone on silent or do-not-disturb, it kept ringing. Thanksgiving day inched closer and closer and closer and closer and-

Ring. Ring. Ring.

At the beginning of the third week, I continued to listen to it as it rang, knowing Abigail was on the other side, waiting to hear me as she… no. It expected me to answer. On the Tuesday of the third week, I answered it.
“I’ve been so worried about you, Albert!” she said to me, her smile evident from her tone. “Can we video call?” she asked me.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Abigail- you know… I should call mom and dad. Tell them about… all this. I’m worried.”

I grunted in response. “Video call, then.”

The video call started and I hit answer.

I stared at the phone as my sister stared back. I screamed, hung up, then broke my phone against the wall as my sobbing became louder and louder. The fog lifted even higher as it filled the room in its thick mist.

The phone rang again-that damn ringing. Ring. Ring. Ring.

It didn’t stop, it didn’t fucking stop and no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I can’t get her out of my head. She never showed up for Thanksgiving, I didn’t even ask my parents if they expected her. She’s dead, we all know it.

And yet, this stranger keeps calling and no matter how much I try. I can’t ignore her. I- I-

ARCHIVIST:
Erm-

ALBERT:
Please, you have to help me! Plea-

ARCHIVIST:
I’m going to get my assistant. He can help- with uh. Matters like-

ALBERT:
Please.
ARCHIVIST (shouting):
MARTIN!

[CLICK.]