Free Fearsome Things: Five Short Tales of Horror and Suspense by Anthony M. Strong Page B

sorry’ crap, then they hang up.” He hit ignore. “I even tried returning the call, but the number’s disconnected. Not in service. How can that be?”
    “Beats me.” Jack could barely contain his mirth. The app was working like a charm. He’d have to buy the bartender a drink.
    “Anyway. I can’t stand here chatting all day.”
    “Big sale?”
    “Maybe. Got a meeting downtown. Should be a good one if I can land it.”
    “Well I’d better not keep you,” Jack said.
    “Right.” Jerry turned to leave, then glanced back. “Oh, by the way, I told accounting to credit you with commission for that order yesterday. Seemed only fair since you worked on it for so long. Like I said, I got your back.”
    Jack opened his mouth but no words came out. Shit, now he felt like a total ass. Maybe he should tell Jerry about the app, own up to the prank. But Jerry was already striding across the room toward the front door, pulling his coat on as he went.  Through the plate glass windows lining the front of the building Jack could see the street. Pedestrians sauntered along the sidewalk, Cars and trucks raced by on their way to destinations unknown. Jerry reached the door and pulled it open.
    Jack looked down at his computer screen. It was too late to do anything now. He’d wait until Jerry got back and tell him everything. He wondered if he could cancel the app, shut if off. At least he could save the poor guy any more aggravation.
    When he glanced up again Jerry was on the sidewalk. He was about to cross the street, but then he hesitated. He pulled his phone out, lifted it to his ear, and stepped from the curb.
    The bus didn’t have time to stop. The thud could be heard even through the windows and over the hubbub of office noise. Jerry flew into the air, his coat billowing. He seemed to hang there for a second as the bus screeched to a halt, and then he cut a graceful arc into the traffic moving in the other direction. The second thud was dull, like a hammer hitting a bag of broken sticks.
    Jack leapt to his feet and raced to the door, oblivious to the screams of the receptionist. He ran out into the street to the spot where Jerry had taken flight.
    To his left and right he heard hushed voices.
    “He didn’t even look.” Said a young woman, her face a picture of shock.
    “It was the phone, he was shouting something at the phone.” An older man in a dark suit lectured his wife. “See, I told you cell phones are a distraction.”
    Jack took a step into the road. He rounded the bus and there was Jerry, good old over ambitious Jerry, lying on his back next to a green SUV. His arms and legs were flailed as if he was making snow angels on the concrete. A pool of blood circled his head.
    Jack bent over and fought the urge to throw up. His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket. The screen flashed on, bright with a backlit glow. The Evil Eye icon pulsed red. Two words flashed across it. App Complete.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Cry of The Banshee
     
     
    JOHN O’BANNON AWOKE, his eyes snapping open an instant before the recollection of his surroundings rushed back to meet him. From across the room, through heavy lead paned windows, fingers of silver moonlight inched across the floor. Silhouetted against this pale reflected glow stood a chair, his clothes draped across it in such a way that when his eyes settled upon it he saw, briefly, a clawing, creeping shape that made his heart quicken, before common sense vanquished the terror. He breathed deeply, relieved to be alone. Nothing was coming for him, no skulking, looming demon, just trousers and a rumpled shirt. Plain. Ordinary.
      Inside the shirt, in his breast pocket, a folded sheet of white cotton laid paper, the words upon it the instrument of bad news, a summons that had drawn him back to this bleak and dreary place.
    It seemed an age ago that he had been at home in Manhattan, not merely two days. Since then he had requested a leave of absence from his