Free Leave the Living by Joe Hart Page A

talked quietly behind its grate as he walked around the set of chairs twice, pulling their cushions out before lying down to peer beneath them. Mick stood and turned to the safe. Its door still hung wide open, revealing its empty space. No keys here, Mick, no sir. You lost ’em good, probably dropped ’em through the ice when you were on the lake having your little anxiety attack. He sighed, moving across the basement and up the stairs. What could he do now? There was no way to leave, so he would have to call someone to come get him. Before realizing it, he began to reach into his jeans pocket to draw out his cell, stopping as he remembered he’d left it at the hotel.
    “You’re fucking losing it,” he muttered, turning in place before walking to the ancient corded phone hanging from the kitchen wall. “You lost your cell, the keys, your wife, your dad. Good job, asshole. Wonderful work here.”
    The attempt to buoy his mood by the self-deprecating humor fell flat, and he shook his head as he picked up the phone’s receiver. Bringing it to his ear, he froze.
    Nothing but static blasted out of the earpiece.
    It hissed and sizzled, an electronic blizzard matching the one outdoors. He tapped the button within the cradle, but the static didn’t break. It roared on, a thousand voices cheering or screaming at once. What were the chances of the phone lines being down? Fairly good, he supposed, with the storm raging outside. He cursed and hit the phone again, harder this time, making the entire casing rattle against the wall.
    “Unbelievable,” he said, triggering the button again, but there was no effect.
    He started to pull the receiver away from his ear when the static changed.
    A hollow groan built in volume as if someone were on the other end of the line, making their way closer and closer to the phone. It grew until the white noise accompanying it surged louder, amplifying the moan into a monotone Gregorian chant. Mick’s breath caught in his chest as he pressed the earpiece closer to his head, his ear beginning to ache, all the while an instinctual urging within him cried out to hang the phone up, to get away from it. The groan altered again, becoming a sharpened hiss of static that almost hurt to listen to. Sssssssssssss.
    His heart punched against his breastbone, his head beginning to feel light like it might float away as the noise in his ear grew to a piercing shriek.
    Sssssssssssssee.
    Mick dropped the phone, his hand releasing it of its own accord. He stepped backward, bumping into the kitchen table. A slender vase tipped over in its center and cracked in half, spilling water as well as a single drooping cut of pine bow. He only remotely registered that Cambri had given the vase to his father at a Christmas years ago. The phone bounced on the end of its cord, bumping hard against the wall like a doomed bungee jumper. Slowly it came to rest and quit swinging. The wind increased in volume before tapering off, regrouping for another attack on the house. Mick walked forward, reaching out with a trembling hand as if attempting to grasp something alive and full of venom. He snagged the receiver and brought it up to his ear, sure he would hear the same terrible voice speaking through, or with, the static again.
    The line was dead; no sound came from the earpiece.
    He hung it up and stepped away again, rubbing his palm against his thigh. Blinking, he turned and made his way to the kitchen sink, turning the light on directly above it. The old thermometer still hung outside the window, tilted inward so that its face could be read by anyone doing dishes. The red line of mercury hovered at five below, and almost to accentuate the point, the wind picked up once more, peppering the window with frozen crystals.
    He leaned away from the sink and turned to face the rest of the house. It was ten miles to the nearest residence, probably a three-hour walk through the wind and blowing snow. It was freezing and dangerous, foolish