Author's Notes: I want to try something spooky. I might put up a second chapter, but that's about it. Also, I'm trying to start shifting from this website to livejournal. I'll be posting more drabbles that won't necessarily end up here or on my tumblr there. Follow if you want to read. Bananacruise.

Stare at the dark too long and you will eventually see what isn't there.

Cameron Jace

It's ten PM on a Wednesday when it first happens.

There is an old phone that sits on a coffee table in the hallway by the front door. It's an antique or something. My grandma owned it before she died and gave it to my mom in her will. I know it doesn't work; at least that's what my parents told me. It's more for aesthetic appeal, as well as memories for my mom to remember when she runs her fingers over it. I catch her sometimes with a strange look in her eyes, like she wants to cry.

So when I'm watching the television one night with my feet propped up on the footrest, a bowl of ice cream in my lap, it strikes me as annoying when a chime begins to fill the room. I groan, muting the T.V. and look for the phone. Who the fuck would call this late at night on a weekday anyway?

"Hello?" I greet, picking up the portable and placing it to my ear. I pull it away and stare at it when I just get the beeping of the dial tone. The chiming starts up again, shrill and urgent. It's definitely not our house phone.

I twist around on the couch in confusion, hanging up the device in my hand and peering into the darkness of the foyer hallway. A pause and then the chiming is back. It's definitely a phone.

Taking another large bite of my ice cream, I place the bowl down on the couch and stand up, heading towards the front door. My hand flicks on the light switch, the foyer coming into focus in a hazy yellow glow from the bulbs. The ringing is louder in here, and it's easy to locate where it's coming from.

The black, bulky phone from my grandma is ringing. I move to stand in front of it, hovering over it with a raised eyebrow. Well, I'll be damned. I reach out and pull it forward, noting that it isn't hooked up to anything, and when I tip it sideways I see that it doesn't take batteries.

Scratching the back of my neck and glancing behind me, I shrug noncommittally and pick up the receiver.

"Hello?"

I don't hear anything at first, but then there is a grainy sort of noise – a static blanket coming out of the phone. At first I think this is a prank, but then I recognize breathing through the gravely wisps. "Hello? Jones' residence."

"Jones?" The voice that comes through sounds surprised and thrilled. I don't recognize this voice, but when he begins to chuckle I can tell I really don't know who this is. He has an accent. "What a pleasure. Who may I ask that I'm speaking to?"

I shift my feet, my socks smooth against the hardwood floor. "Alfred. Who's this?"

"I apologize, my manners are appalling. My name is Arthur, my boy. It's a delight to meet you."

I purse my lips, glancing behind me again. The house is empty – silent – my parents sleeping. "How did you get this number?" I examine the phone again, clearly confused. I thought this phone was a piece of junk. The static continues to crinkle against my ear and I shift my feet again. "Hello? You still there?"

"I'm here," the voice says, and the way he says it sends a shiver down my spine, my hair prickle. It sounds teasing and I frown.

"How did you get this number?" I repeat, genuinely curious.

"It used to be a friend of mine's. I felt nostalgic and just gave it a ring. I'm sorry if it bothered you," Arthur apologizes. I pick at a stray piece of paint on the coffee table distractedly.

"Nah, don't sweat it. It's just late is all," I mutter, really flabbergasted. I don't fully know how to tell someone that they're on a busted phone older than my parents.

"I'm terribly sorry. It didn't cross my mind of the time. I honestly didn't even expect anyone to pick up. I'll leave you to your night then, Alfred," Arthur says through the hissing of the phone. Before I can say anything else the line goes dead.

I'm stuck holding the phone, alone in the night without a clue.

I check the old black phone the next morning, flipping it over and backwards and upside down. There is no cord or plug or slot for a power source on it. I scratch my head, confused. How the fuck . . . ?

I tell my brother Mattie about it, but he just shoots me this weird glance and continues with his homework. It makes me kinda self-conscious. I must look like an idiot thinking that ancient piece of shit could do anything more than act as a paper weight.

Two nights later, when my mom is doing dishes and my dad is watching T.V. with Matt, I sidle beside her and put my plate in the sink. I peer at her out of the corner of my eye and just think Fuck It.

"Hey, ma?"

"Hm?"

I flick a lone pea on the counter into the garbage disposal.

"You know that phone in the foyer?"

She smiles at me. "Your grandmother's. What about it?"

I go for the gold. "Does it work?" I blurt.

Mom stops her scrubbing and wrinkles her nose at me with a smile. I really feel stupid – stupider when she looks at me than when my brother did. That's all the answer I need, but she talks anyway.

"No. It's much too old. It didn't even work when I was growing up. Why?"

I shouldn't say it. I really shouldn't say anything else. Keep your fat mouth shut, Alfred. You're going to sound like a –

"I heard it ringing."

MORON.

She doesn't smile at me this time. She appears perturbed. "Ringing?" I nod. Her lipstick coated lips pinch together.

"There was someone on the other line," I explain.

"Alfred, you're imagining things. It's broken."

She goes back to washing dishes and I stand there another minute kicking myself. Of course it's broken. I make a beeline for it around the living room where Whose Line is It Anyway? is on, examining it one more time. I conclude it is broken.

So what was the other night about?

The phone rings a week later, when I'm getting home from baseball practice. I'm in the process of removing my uniform and equipment in the coat closet in the foyer when the shrill cawing happens. My muscles tense mid-bend, and I slowly peer up to see my surprised expression in the mirror hanging over the coffee table.

The ringing continues. It doesn't relent – just a simple rhythm wanting to be acknowledged.

I straighten my back and with conviction yank the phone up from its black body. Static and breathing.

"Hello? Jones' residence."

There is a pause, and then, "Is this Alfred?" I recognize the voice this time.

"Hi, Arthur." My stomach does a disconcerting roll. I hear him hum in approval as I watch a bead of sweat drip down my temple with the rest from practice. I trace my face as he talks.

"Afternoon, Alfred. Am I bothering you at the moment?"

I take a moment to consider that. Damn, I have really long eyelashes. I look away from the mirror and turn back to the opened closet. "Not really. Just got home from school."

"You're attending school? That's good to hear. An education is a terrible thing to waste," Arthur says around the white noise from the phone speaker. "It's shameful to say that I felt nostalgic again today."

The way his voice lilts makes me think of a kid. A kid who lost their friend in a car accident or something equally horrific. He only has a phone number, and as absurd as it sounds that this phone should be working, I put logic on the backburner and smile into the speaker.

"So you called me to cheer you up. I can see you've got the right idea," I laugh. The phone is silent on his end for a minute before he speaks, sounding, well, happy.

"Your laughter is contagious. I do appreciate that you don't find me calling to be an inconvenience."

"I said don't sweat it. You can call me whenever you feel nostalgic."

There's a smile in Arthur's voice and I can't help but smile, too. "And what about when I'm not?" I get the implication.

"Then just call to talk to me."

"I'd like that very much, Alfred."

Arthur takes his time to call me, and he never asks for anyone else. It's kind of weird, but then again I guess this whole situation isn't exactly normal. I don't bring it up to my parents or Matt again because I know they won't believe me. Besides, after the third phone conversation I can hardly say I'm imagining it.

As time goes on his calls have less of a gap between them. We don't talk about anything in particular, just random things. Sports, hobbies, aspirations, interests. One night I ask Arthur to describe himself to me. He hums into the phone thoughtfully.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks.

I grin and run a hand through my hair, shrugging even though I know he can't see it. "Just curious," I say, because it's the truth. He laughs.

"Curiosity killed the cat, Alfred. But sure, I see no harm. Only if you will tell me what you look like."

"Deal."

"I'm a gentleman first and foremost."

I snort.

"Nothing particularly interesting about me. Blonde, pale, short –"

"Dude, you're makin' my underwear soaked over here," I joke, rolling my eyes with a grin. Arthur chuckles lowly, sounding uncomfortable.

"I told you I'm nothing special. A deal is a deal, lad. Quid pro quo."

I sigh, leaning my hip against the table and glancing at the mirror. I was just me. I didn't know how to describe that.

"I'm tan. I'm in the sun a lot and I play sports, so I have some definition, but not a lot. I'm blonde, too, and have a great smile. I'm just born to be in a Calvin Klein ad."

"I'm swooning," Arthur teases.

I laugh and look up. My throat closes when I catch a glimpse of something in the closet behind me. A gust of air is sucked through my teeth and I'm spinning around, heart beating rapidly in my chest. I drop the phone in my alarm, the handle hanging from the body by the coil, dangling over the tabletop.

The house is suddenly too big, too silent. I frown and move forward, hand slowly reaching out to the door that's cracked open. I pull it in one smooth move, jumping back when a baseball bat clatters at my feet. I take a steady breath and stick my head in, peering around the coats and feeling around the small space.

Nothing.

I can hear Arthur calling, "Alfred? Alfred?" from the phone. I gingerly pick it up with a trembling hand, managing my best smile.

"Hey."

"What happened?" he asks, concerned.

"I just – I saw a spider."

"A . . . spider?"

"Yeah," I affirm, a burst of laughter booming from my throat. I don't know where I pull that from but it makes me feel better. Arthur seems to calm down at my joviality and we continue our conversation.

Still, I am uneasy the remainder of the night, double and triple checking the closet before I head upstairs to bed. I must be tired, I want to tell myself. I'm dehydrated from all the recent practices, I want to say. But as I crawl into bed, as jumpy as a Chihuahua, I know it'd be pointless.

I definitely saw a face staring back at me from the crack in the doorway.

Arthur calls a lot more when I start to work part-time over the summer. On my free time I also spend it with my friends who I rarely see anymore. Arthur says he doesn't want to complain but I know that's exactly how he wants to act. I can tell he's sad and it works.

He's less nostalgic now. He calls to talk to me.

"You're the only friend I have in the world at this moment, I'm ashamed to admit," he tells me one evening.

"Really? You don't have friends where you live?"

Arthur is quiet as static invades the phone. "I don't want to bother you, Alfred. I'm sorry."

I sit up and shake my head. "No, that's not what I –"

Click.

I gaze down at the phone, feeling like a total asshole. It's not his fault he doesn't have friends. From what Arthur has told me it sounds like he has an awful family. He just wants company, I guess.

"Maybe he's jealous," I mutter, laying the phone down. I jolt when a CLANG comes from the kitchen. I dash out of the foyer and click on the kitchen light. A few of the pots hanging on the wall have fallen on the floor. I sigh and pick them up, hanging them back into place. This house is falling apart.

I'm woken up from my sleep to go to the bathroom and take a piss. I yawn, dragging my lazy body from bed and passing Matt's door. Halfway through, I hear a phone start to ring. What the . . .

I flush the toilet and rub my eyes, leaning over the banister to see what little of the foyer is visible from the bathroom light. It's the black phone. I frown and mentally groan, descending down the stairs. "Jesus, Arthur. Don't you know what time it is?"

I pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"You think I'm jealous of you, don't you?"

I feel a little more awake. A stab of guilt pricks at me that he picked up on that so easily. I really am an open and closed book.

"No. I never said that, Arthur. I just have a lot going on and – look, it's late. Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"I want to talk now," he says, his voice thin and urgent. It's strange and new and I don't like it.

"Sorry. I'll talk in the morning. Goodnight, Arthur." He doesn't say anything as I hang up the phone, the sleep being too much on my eyelids. I have work in the morning and have to take a buddy to the airport after. As bad as it sounds, I don't have time to coddle Arthur's problems right now.

I don't even make it two steps before the phone starts ringing again. This time I feel a small bite of irritation. It's three AM, I don't have time for this. With a huff, I twist around and yank the phone up.

"Look, Arthur, I already told you –"

"I'm not jealous."

I drop the phone completely, falling over myself and into the coffee table. The whisper didn't come from the speaker. I stare wide-eyed at the cracked closet door. It's too dark to see inside, but suddenly being next to it is unbearable. I hear the crinkle of static from the phone dangling next to my face, but Arthur doesn't say anything through the speaker.

It feels like an eternity before I manage to use rusty limbs to remove myself from the floor, hang up the phone, and check the closet. It's empty, like always.

I don't sleep that night.

Arthur doesn't call the next day either.