She Calls

A Story by Rachel

A man whose wife just underwent throat surgery's life is changed for the worse

She Calls

You open the door to the car, and she gets out, the plastic hospital bracelet still around her wrist. “I’m so glad to see you,” you tell her. She tries to speak, clutches her throat and smiles apologetically. “Sorry,” you say, “I forgot”. You grab her suitcase and wheel it into the house. She had surgery on her throat, and cannot talk for a few weeks. You tuck her into bed, make her tea and bring her magazines. “Just relax, text me if you need anything.” She nods.

The days pass in the same matter, her tucked into bed, silent, you taking care of her, until the day your boss calls. You have to return to work. She waves her hands, go. She texts, insisting she will be fine here alone for a few hours. “Tomorrow,” you say. The next day dawns. You grab your briefcase and head out the door.

“Bye, hon!” you call, before mentally slapping yourself. She can’t call back. You’ve forgotten again. You pull out your phone to text her and nearly drop it when you hear a call, “Bye, have a good day, honey!” The voice is hers. Your wife’s. Coming from the downstairs guest room. But that’s impossible. You chalk it up to missing her talk so much that you’re hearing things. “Honey, go back up to bed,” you say. You head for the door, hesitate before leaving. Silence. Yes, you are definitely hearing things. Your wife is still upstairs, in bed. You head out the door and get in the car. You pull out your phone. Text her: how’s it going? I left for work. You watch as the little text bubble indicates that she’s typing: still can’t talk at all. A chill goes down your spine as you remember her voice back in the house, have a good day, honey. No, you tell yourself, it was in my head.

The day passes quickly, and soon, it is time to go home to your wife. You stop at the drugstore to buy some flowers and cough drops, then head home. Everything is quiet. Put your hand on the doorknob, turn it, and it opens. You had forgotten to lock it, you think. “Honey, I’m home!” you call. You know she can’t answer, but just want her to know that you are back. But when the voice calls again from the guest room, “I’m in here, sweetie,” the flowers drop from your hand. The voice is your wife’s. No doubt about it, and this time there is no way you imagined it. “Emma?” you whisper, and walk toward the room. After five steps forward, you stop. Now, all is silent once again, and you wonder if going to that room is a good idea after all. Your phone chimes, loudly, and a rustle from your wife’s bedroom upstairs and then the sound of footsteps makes your heart jump in your throat. You don’t know what you expect to happen, but you turn and bolt upstairs, nearly running into your wife, who is standing at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide with fear. “Honey, something strange is happening, I..I heard your voice answer me downstairs from the guest room, but..” Emma holds up her hand, a tear trickling out of her eye and down her pale cheek. She takes her phone in her hand and composes a text. A moment later, my phone chimes. One new text from Emma: Let’s go in our room and lock the door. We need to call the police. I heard it too. Then, a voice floats up from downstairs, a perfect mimicry of my wife’s voice: I’m coming upstairs, honey!” followed by a sinister, deep laugh and footsteps on the stairs…