Short Stories

Tune

She listened everywhere she could.

In the dead of night, at the break of morning. On buses to work, where the air simmered in a mix of sour sweat and stinking breath. In the complex - in all its labyrinthine hallways, painted mud-brown and accented with potted ferns or cushy armchairs, like someone trying to make a home when they'd never lived in one before. In the glow of twilight at her apartment, as she mulled the sounds over with an evening coffee at her nose.

Dr. Hera Owens listened.

Now she listened in her office: another sad echo of a home that fit the complex perfectly, like its last puzzle piece. The same mud-brown walls surrounded her with the uncomfortable warmth of a strange touch, and rugs blanketed the floor as though smothering secrets beneath loose boards. Sometimes Dr. Owens herself felt like she could hear a heartbeat under them....

She sat at a pristine desk, little more than a laptop and some papers on the surface. There was a certain delicacy she had hoped to convey here, balanced with a necessary professionalism. The desk overlooked a large blue couch, softest she could find, and a small coffee table holding a box of tissues at a careful angle - meant to look inviting with imposing itself. No more than 14 feet square, the room might have seemed stuffy if it weren't for a broken air conditioner, which kept the room in a constant chill.

'CRRK-stupid, I-CRRRK-'

The signal was poor. Dr. Owens fiddled with the pocket radio on the desk, tapping it a few times before grimacing and drawing a finger to its dial. Carefully she tuned again, re-dialing into 101.5. Afterwards she wondered what to do with her hands. They settled under her chin, propping her head up with interlaced fingers.

The broadcast grew stronger. Static ebbed away, and the familiar voice of a girl named Casta broke through.

'Crrk-doing here... I shouldn't be here.... I-crrk-'

Another interrupted.

'CRRRK-STOP. STOP. THE LIGHT. THE BATHROOM... OFF. OFF. OFF. OFF-'

This second voice spoke with an odd duplicity; it was demonic, low and growling, never failing to send chills down Owens's spine. But at the same time it quivered, a scared whimper of a noise. Owens's heart stopped the first time she heard it. Now she needed only a few seconds' recovery; the voice made her jump- it always did- though it had long lost the element of surprise.

She listened carefully now, closing her eyes. Soon the sounds of a fire crackled over the radio. Then a CRACK and POP struck the line - something like lightning, or a shorted circuit.

'It's off,' Casta cried. 'It's off-!'

But the fire raged on. Growls of flame threatened to swallow the radio whole, reducing the plastic casing to a puddle.

'It's.... OK. One- one more-CRRK-ore time....'

Outside her office door, Owens heard fading footsteps. She waited. And listened.

The fire ceased, quick as it started.

'Off. ...Off. It's-CRRK-t's safe.'

The radio went quiet for a moment, as her office buzzed with background static. But only a moment.

'CRRK-WRONG. WRON-RRRK-BACK. AGAIN. WRONG.'

Outside her office Dr. Owens caught shuffling footsteps, as though someone waited outside, not sure they wanted to come in. She had little time left.

'CRRRRRK-t's ok, I did it right that time, it-IN. GO IN. GO IN. WAIT-CRRK-AITING- WAIT. STOP. STEP AGAI-CRRRK-'

The footsteps seemed to grow nearer, soft thumps rising outside the door. They were irregular, more like a tap dance than someone pacing.