Red Phone Box: A Darkly Magical Story Cycle

A Note from the Editor

Warning. You are about to step inside the collective mind of some dangerously creative people.

Though it’s not a standard novel, this book should be read like one. The 58 story-chapters it’s composed of have been arranged so that they depend on those that precede and follow them to make sense. They won’t work if you read them out of order. Such is the way of story cycles.

Red Phone Box has mostly been punctuated and spelled according to British standards. However, the American characters’ stories - that is, those whose viewpoint character is American - have American spelling and punctuation where applicable.

The book began its life as a series of loosely-connected short stories written by people who mostly never met or spoke to each other. Through the magic of editing and additional writing, author/puzzle designer Tim Dedopulos and I have taken the pieces and transformed them into a collective novel.

Strange things will happen when you enter here. The pages of this book are infused with the energy of London and tinged with distant cultures and rhythms. But the clearest view inside this book is of the dark places within the heads of the people who wrote it.

We are a frightening crowd of rebels, revolutionaries, artists, geeks, apocalypse prophets, and writers. Perhaps you are one of us.

You are advised to stay on the path. Even so, you may find yourself pulled into the box, wanting to know where it would take you if you should enter the imaginary world yourself.

Salome Jones,

July 2013

PS: There’s a list of characters downloadable at http://www.gwdbooks.com/rpb-dramatis-personae.html if you’re interested.

1. Oh Aye, Crofton

by Gethin A. Lynes

Iain sat atop the gothic bulk of the Crags with a bottle of Black Isle Stout and a fag, and looked down between his knees at the path below. Angus was laughing, wild black hair and beard blowing in the wind as he came up the steep track from Holyrood Palace. He had one arm around some bird’s shoulders, and they passed a bottle of Buckie back and forth.

Gazing up and over the city, Iain tried not to be disappointed that his cousin had brought a girl with him again. Not even like she’s his bird, Iain thought. Just some bit of minge he picked up on the train. The street lights were beginning to come on, their orange shroud settling over the city beneath the lively blue of the evening sky.

There was a great pulse in the city at this time of year: the endless daylight, the warm, damp air, the steady rhythm of the Festival. Most locals hated the Edinburgh Festival, the dour bastards, but Iain thought it was brilliant. Aye, he was jeeked come September, but Jesus, they had all bloody winter to do fuck-all but sleep and hide from the cold. The tourists were all right, just tourists.

The wind, all bluster and full of yeast from the brewery, pulled at his jacket and whipped his hair about his eyes. Every once in a while, in a lull, he would catch the faint air of some lone piper playing somewhere up the Mile, or snatches of conversation from the path below.

A peal of laughter blew up to him, and he looked between his knees again. Angus had the girl pressed up against the face of the Crags, his hand up her skirt. Iain grimaced. For fuck’s sake, he thought, sitting back and taking a long swig from his bottle. They’ll be at it all bloody night. Angus’ll not even ken I’m here.

The wind died away a moment, and Iain heard Angus as clear as day itself.

Right, on you go, lass. It’s aw men’s business the night.

He looked down, but the wind rose again and carried the rest of their words away. Whatever was said, the lassie was clearly raging. She hurled the empty Buckie bottle at Angus. He ducked away from it, and when the lass stormed off back down the path, he turned and continued on his way.

Iain sat back again, smiled to himself, and took another long swig.

* * *

What was taking Angus so long? Iain was about to stand up and go look for him when, from behind, a cold, smelly hand clamped over his mouth and nose.

Angus leant in close to his ear. Nothing like a wee whiff of quim to a virgin boy, eh?

Iain twisted around. Get tae fuck, you weegie bastard, he growled, shoving Angus away, and getting to his feet. They stood staring at each other threateningly. Then a grin split Angus’s beard, and he caught Iain in a fierce hug, lifting him off his feet.

When Angus had put him down, Iain reached into his jacket and produced a long, fat spliff.

Areet! Good man. Angus took it from him. Now, get your kit. We’ll smoke it on the way.

On the way where? Iain asked.

Penicuik.

Iain stopped, halfway through lifting his weighty backpack. Why the fuck would we want to go to Penicuik?

Tell me, my young padewan, Angus said, pausing to light the spliff. What do you know about Aleister Crowley?

Bugger all. Intae black magic or the like, aye?

Come on, I’ll explain on the way, Angus said, starting off back down towards the city. If we dinnae dawdle, we’ll get on the bus before all the radge bastards are headed home tae the countryside.

Iain shouldered his pack, and followed.

* * *

Iain reluctantly trailed Angus off the bus. He was feeling far from happy about things, but Angus was a force of nature, and there was no denying him once he’d got an idea in his head.

About a mile along the twilit road south of Penicuik, they came to the firmly locked gates of an estate, where according to rumour (and Angus) old Aleister Crowley had once practised dark rituals in the now-ruined Penicuik House. In fact, Angus reckoned, it was one of Crowley’s rituals that had caused the fire that had gutted the original House.

Iain stopped him on the verge of clambering over the stone wall to one side of the gate. Angus, what are you doing?

What does it look like?

I don’t know, man. It doesnae seem right tae sneak into a locked estate?

Iain, Angus said, shaking his head. That’s the propaganda of oppression talking wi’ your mouth, man. We have right of access in this country. That means we can go wherever we please, and bugger they rich bastards that think they own the whole place. This’ll be here for everyone long after these gates have gone to dust.

You want tae claim right of access tae fucking camp on grounds that Aleister Crowley practised black magic on?

Aye, fucking brilliant, eh? And with that, Angus leapt up, pulled himself over the wall and was gone.

Iain shrugged to himself and threw his pack over the wall and climbed after Angus. On the other side, in the gloom beneath the trees, Angus had just lit the spliff he’d rolled on the bus. He handed it to Iain, and picked up Iain’s pack for him.

Areet, son?

Iain hesitated a moment before saying Aye.

Come on then. Angus turned and led the way along a narrow path through the woods. Before long, Iain had lost sight of Angus, and continued slowly along the path, stoned and getting steadily more nervous in the growing dark.

Eventually, the path emerged from the trees by a small stream. There was no sign of Angus, and Iain stood silent and uneasy, unsure of which way to go. It seemed that the more he strained to hear any sound of Angus, the quieter everything became. He began to hear strange noises, like the call of some eerie bird, and scurryings in the undergrowth, and he became afraid. He felt that something was coming near, some dark presence, and he wanted to run.

Then away to the right, Angus wandered back around a bend in the path. What’re you doing?

The pall of fear shattered, and Iain grinned foolishly and shrugged. As Angus approached, he held out the half-smoked spliff in explanation.

Angus shook his head and took the joint. Come on, ya eejit, he said, and turned away again.

They came around a bend, past a thick stand of copper beech, and the path split, one fork crossing an old stone bridge over the stream, and disappearing into the thick trees that covered the hillside beyond. At the foot of the bridge, Angus pointed down to the opposite bank. There, next to the bridge, two ancient yew trees stood, their twined branches reaching down so that they nearly trailed in the babbling water.

Who needs a fucking tent, eh? he said.

Angus reached into the pack and pulled out another bottle of Black Isle. They shared it, leaning on the edge of the bridge for a while in silence, listening to the splash and murmur of the water, the soft susurrus of wind in the trees. The beer was nearly empty when Iain broke the quiet, slapping at a midge on his neck.

Angus stood up. Areet, he said. Let’s get some firewood. He picked up the backpack, and Iain followed him down beneath the yew trees.

A small fire pit, circled by stones and filled with the remains of recent use, sat between the two trees. Angus dropped the pack, and immediately began gathering kindling. After a moment, Iain wandered off to look for larger branches.

It was almost completely dark now, and with returning unease, Iain went back to the path, out from beneath the cover of the forbidding trees. He followed it up the hill from the bridge, scooping up fallen branches along the tree line. As the path wound up the slope, the noise of the water faded and the wind died.

He found himself once more in silent woods, surrounded by darkness, and once again he had the growing sense of some ominous presence nearby. He looked wildly about him, trying to spot anything amongst the trees. He could barely make out the pale line of the path going back down to the bridge. Off in the trees he heard the snap of twigs. He froze, hardly daring to breathe. Again, the crack of a twig underfoot, closer this time.

He panicked, flung aside his bundle of firewood, and fled down the path.

Beneath the yew trees a small fire burned. Angus was nowhere to be seen. Iain rummaged around in the backpack until he found his pocket-knife. He opened the blade and crouched down with his back to the fire. After a few minutes Angus emerged from the darkness of the path. He had Iain’s bundle of wood in his arms.

Fuck you, Angus, Iain said, as Angus broke into laughter.

Ya big bloody Jessie. Angus dropped the wood beside the fire. Go on, you jumpy bugger. Open another one of they beers.

* * *

Iain awoke from black dreams, from fire and chanting and a blood-red telephone box. He sat up. The fire was still burning, casting spectral shadows among the branches of the trees above him. Angus was gone, and his blanket, the empty bottles and Iain’s backpack with him. Iain reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. He did not feel reassured.

He didn’t like the idea of wandering through the woods on his own, but he wasn’t going to sit where he was. He got to his feet and walked out to the bridge. On the other side of the stream, and off down the path, away from where they’d come, he saw the twinkling of fire moving amongst the trees. He stopped dead still and waited. A moment later it appeared on a patch of open path, moving away from him. It was the unmistakeable silhouette of Angus, carrying a burning torch. Curious despite himself, Iain crossed the bridge and followed.

* * *

The path eventually emerged from the trees, and skirted the edge of a wide paddock. The occasional bleat of unseen sheep accompanied Iain as he followed Angus at a distance. Beyond it, the path plunged once more into woods and climbed a steep slope.

Iain stopped within the tree line, and watched as Angus approached the ruin of what must have been Penicuik House. Through the windows and broken stone, he could see the flicker of firelight from within.

Some time later, Iain crept up the wide, uneven steps of the once-grand entrance to the house. The front was covered in the scaffolding of some barely-begun restoration project. He stood beneath it for a moment, considering. Jesus, do I really want to know what’s going on in there? What the fuck has Angus got himself mixed up in? But despite the pit in his stomach, he knew he was going to find out.

Careful not to make a noise on the uneven stone, he crossed the entrance hall, and followed the dancing glow of light through a doorway to the right. At the far end of the building, he stood in the shadow outside a room ablaze in torchlight. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he stepped into the doorway.

Every inch of stone was covered in chalk. A pattern of strange sigils, shapes, and runes danced in the torchlight. On the floor were five wide circles, marking the points of a huge pentagram, in the centre of which four manacles were chained to the floor.

Iain walked slowly into the middle of the room, looking about in amazement. The circles held a strange array of things: a small silver knife, a carving of a deer, a book bound in red leather, a severed arm. At the far end of the room, in the circle that marked the upper point of the pentagram, stood a red telephone box.

As he gaped, the door of the telephone box opened, and out stepped a man in a long black coat. Tall and dark-haired, with an aquiline nose and an imperious forehead, his black eyes glittered in the light. He smiled a thin, dark smile at Iain. Whenever you are ready, Angus, he said, his voice dry and cold as steel.

Iain turned to see Angus standing behind him, his bare chest and arms covered in symbols, a mirror of the walls. In one hand he held a long, curved dagger.

Y-You know this man, Angus? Iain stammered, taking a step back from the knife.

Oh aye, Crofton. Angus stared at Iain, his eyes glazed. Now, he said, raising the knife. Get your clothes off.

2. What a Little Moonlight Can Do

by Salome Jones

It was not a normal London night. Amber gazed up at the full moon through the glass balcony doors. It was strange how the light it cast left the sky dark, but coated the tops of buildings and trees, cars and streets with a ghostly glow. It stencilled black outlines around places it couldn’t reach, more like ethereal rain than actual light.

She slid the glass door open and stepped out onto the balcony. The air was absolutely still, not like normal, windy London at all. She leaned against the railing and looked out over the city. As she did, she noticed that her arms and the front of her blouse were glowing. If only that liquid light could get inside her, sink into her veins, maybe she would brighten, stop missing Jon.

The sounds of the city floated up to her, perfectly clear, even though the street was over a hundred feet down. The hum of car engines, an occasional siren, the isolated sound of people laughing like they were the only ones in a big, dark room.

She looked through the window at the clock. 2:22 in the morning and still she couldn’t sleep. Two two two. Even the clock was mocking her now. There was no ‘two’ any more. Jon wasn’t coming back.

She had to do something, or she was going to cry. Again. She was so tired of crying. A walk. It was the perfect night for it. She went back into the flat, leaving the glass doors open to the night air. She crossed the room and stared at herself in the mirror on the wall above the sofa. Her hair needed combing, but she only ran her fingers through it. It would do. It was dark, after all. Who would see her?

She flipped the lights off. As she slid her jacket on, she noticed her arms and her shirt still looked like they were glowing. Funny. Did moonlight always do that?

She took the lift down to the ground floor and walked past the porter. He was watching TV behind the counter.

Amber. He inclined his head. Going out late?

Just need a walk, James. She forced a smile.

He nodded, like he knew the feeling. He said something else then. His Filipino accent sometimes confused her.

Indigo starfish? She repeated what she thought she’d heard.

Riiiight. He grinned and waved.

She waited until she was out the front door before she shook her head. Who knew what James meant? She turned left at the gate and kept going. She walked fast, the clicking of her heels echoing between the buildings on either side of the nearly empty street. The trouble was, she couldn’t escape her own thoughts.

Jon had left her for someone else. He’d never said so, but she knew it.

She crossed over the road when she reached the roundabout, and slowed for a moment at the corner, deciding which way to go. Probably that Alice. The one with the perfect teeth. It was always a risk, letting him play away from home. She peered down the first right, a dark, narrow street, a row of terraces and the entrance to a park. Maybe it was the redhead, the Spanish girl. What was her name? Gloria? She took a few steps toward the second right, bigger and brighter, more traffic, a pub. No, she was sure it was Alice. She retraced her steps and took the first right, picking up her pace again, moving in and out from under street lights, light dark light dark light, like the windows of a passing train.

He was undoubtedly with her right now. Maybe they were still awake. So new in the relationship, two in the morning, they were probably…

A shadow stepped out in front of her, right out of a terrace gate. Just a shadow, nothing in sight to have cast it. It meowed.

Hi, kitty. She’d never seen a cat out on the street in London before. Was it feral? As if answering her question it brushed up against her shins. She crouched down.

Hello, little one. She extended her index finger in greeting. The cat touched its nose to her fingertip. Its black fur made it all but invisible in the dark. When it looked up at her, its eyes glowed yellow gold. What are you doing out here? You’re not lost, are you?

The cat rubbed the side of its face against her hand.

Ah. You, too, eh? She smiled. Night-time’s the worst, isn’t it? She ran her hand down the cat’s sleek back.

A light came on inside the terrace whose gate the cat had appeared from. The door opened a crack and a woman’s voice hissed, Max! The cat turned and ran back through the gate and into the house. The door closed.

Amber straightened up and dusted her hands on the seat of her trousers. Bye, Max. It was nice to meet you. A wave of sadness welled up in her and something warm tickled down her cheek. Oh god, not again. So much fucking crying.

She started walking again, past more terraces, a bicycle stand, parked cars. She wished she could hear Jon’s voice. That would calm her down. If she could just talk to him… But she couldn’t. She’d tried. His mobile was disconnected, and she had no idea where he lived now. She reached the gate to the park. It was closed and locked. She guessed they didn’t want people in there after dark.

When she really needed to hear his voice, she called home and listened to his low rumble on the answer-phone. Hi, this is Jon. Leave a message for me or Amber and we’ll call you when we get in. She still couldn’t make herself change the recording, even though he’d been gone three weeks. Hearing it was like time-travelling back to when they were happy together.

She should call it now. Maybe it would help her stop crying. She paused along the low brick wall in front of the park, unzipped her jacket pocket, and fished inside for her cell phone. It wasn’t there. She had a sudden flash of it sitting on the nightstand, plugged into the charger. Damn. Her nose stung with tears. Pathetic. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and blinked to clear her vision.

She focussed her eyes on a spot of light across the street. A red phone box! That couldn’t be a coincidence. It was a sign. She was meant to call. She’d never actually used a phone box. She patted her pockets. She had some change, but she wasn’t sure how much it would be. There was only one way to find out.

She darted across the street and peered through the one of the glass window panes. It was lit from the inside. ‘60p Minimum,’ said a notice on the phone. She opened the door and stepped inside. She dug some coins out of her jacket pocket. She lifted the receiver and put the coins in the slot. The black plastic was cold against her ear. It felt strange, old and unwieldy. She dialled her own number and listened to it ringing.

There was a click right after the first ring. Weird. She thought it went over to the answer-phone on the third -

Hello? A man’s voice.

Oh good Christ. She’d dialled the wrong number. I’m sorry. I must’ve -

Amber?

Who is this? Her heart jumped.

Who do you think it is, loon? Where are you?

What? How could this be? You’re home?

That’s the sensible place to be at three in the morning. It was Jon. It was really Jon.

Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right there. Just don’t move. She replaced the receiver in a rush. It fell from the cradle and dangled from its silver cord, but she didn’t care. She pushed open the door and hurtled out into the street, breaking into a run. He was home. She ran back past the terraces, the bike rack. He was home. She rounded the corner and crossed at the roundabout.

Oh god, she wasn’t even wearing any makeup. She must look like hell. At the front door, James buzzed her in.

Hey, he said.

Indigo starfish? She flashed him a smile.

Yeah. He laughed.

She got into the lift and pushed the button for her floor. Her heart raced almost painfully. The lift doors opened and she got off, holding herself to a fast walk. At the door to her flat, she ran her hands over her hair, licked her finger and wiped it under each eye, hoping she didn’t look like a raccoon. She put her key in the lock and turned the latch, pushing the door open. It was dark inside. She went in, not bothering to flip the light on.

Hello? She took off her jacket and hung it up. It gave off a faint glow. She looked at it more closely. Definitely glowing. So weird. She took off her shoes and put them on the shoe rack. Parts of them were glowing, too. She shook her head.

The flat was quiet.

Amber tiptoed across the lounge. Maybe he’d gone to bed already. It was late after all. God, it was late. Fatigue hit her all at once. She went into the bedroom. Honey?

There was a groan from the bed.

Oh, thank God. Amber stood staring at Jon’s dark form under the blankets.

Where’ve you been?

I could ask the same about you. But she didn’t. Out for a walk. Couldn’t sleep. She unbuttoned her blouse.

You’re glowing.

I know. It’s just the moonlight. She unzipped her trousers and pulled them off.

Moonlight?

Yeah, it’s some crazy full moon. She unfastened her bra and slipped her panties down, adding them to the pile of her clothes on the floor.

I don’t think moonlight makes people glow.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and slid under the covers. Neither did I. He must have been there a while. It was warm already. God, she was so tired, like she’d been running marathons. But it does. She snuggled up against him.

Amber?

Let’s not talk about it now, she whispered. I missed you.

* * *

She woke up to a darkened room. The curtains were drawn, but she could tell it was daylight by the glow seeping in at the bottom of the window. She sat up and looked at the clock. 7:30. Jon was still asleep next to her, his broad back facing her, his hair spread out on his pillow.

Wow, she’d had such a crazy dream. Moonlight makes you glow? And Jon running off with some girl named Alice? What was that about? Such a sense of relief to wake up and find him right next to her where he belonged.

She left him sleeping and went out to phone work. She was ill, she said. She’d be in tomorrow.

She went into the kitchen, still naked, and put some coffee on. While it was brewing, she went into the bathroom and brushed her hair and put on a little mascara. She heard Jon moving around in the bedroom. She went back to the kitchen and made his coffee, just the way he liked it. Cream and two sugars, right to the brim. She poured herself a cup and carried them both out to the coffee table. Jon was sitting at his desk. She could hear him typing. She walked past him, concentrating on the cups of coffee to make sure she didn’t spill any. She bent over to put them on the table.

Nice arse.

She grinned and turned around. Come and get-

The man in Jon’s chair smiled at her. She screamed and took three steps back. In Jon’s chair, in Jon’s body. But his face wasn’t Jon’s.

Amber? What’s the matter?

Who are you? She was breathing hard. She reached over and grabbed the shawl she kept on the couch and held it up in front of herself.

What the hell? The man squinted at her. What’s wrong with you? It’s me.

Me who? She took another step back. Who are you? How did you get in? Her voice was getting shrill. God, what was happening?

For Christsake, Amber. The man was staring at her now, looking quite alarmed. It’s me. Stuart!

3. For Whom the Phone Rings

by Matthew Scoppetta

It was 2:22. Strange to even be up, let alone walking along the street at this hour. Stranger still was that he actually regarded this new city as home. London, so many new sights to see and new avenues to explore. That’s what he’d thought. He shook his head. Not since he’d first arrived after leaving the States six months before had he felt more alone. True, he’d never been one for attachment. Still, the pettiness of ‘being in a couple,’ the notion of ‘friends,’ hell even the fucking joke that sometimes qualified for a family never seemed more alien to him than it did now.

Well, Jarreth, my friend, you certainly are fucked in the head, he said aloud. There was no-one else to talk to, even on this temperate London night.

Tonight’s stroll was supposed to offer breathing room rather than an excursion into melodrama. But he knew perfectly well that he was broken. Hell, he still carried his heart in its burgundy box.

Useless polished lump of coal. What good are you to me now? Did I really just fucking think that? He was aware of the irony in talking to himself out loud about his thoughts. You’re really losing it this time, Jarreth.

He came to a crossroads, and a simple choice - continue ‘home’ or, as the young lady at the cafe had said, Get lost. He decided to continue straight on, with his shadow stretched out before him under the big moon. He wanted to get lost in this new city, but without trying, he took in the local landmarks, mapping and geo-locating their positions as if his brain was a living, breathing GPS unit. The legacy of years of work in architecture. The simple pattern in the cobblestones told his mind that if he turned left, there was less than a mile before he’d be at his door.

A right turn here, a left turn there, going straight, doubling back, closing his eyes and spinning around, still he’d know his path home. Besides, this particular walk was becoming almost routine. He continued as he had a few nights before - the double lamp, and then the silver Porsche, followed by that low wall beneath the elder tree. Jarreth eased himself down onto the sidewalk, his back against the wall, and absorbed his surroundings. Terraced Victorian buildings set against an alien backdrop. Sure he had seen sights like this before - New York came to mind - but he was never comfortable in cities. Too much hustle and bustle. But he did enjoy looking at the throwback phone box, its regal red standing out defiantly against the yellow-hued street corner.

Funny how you pick up on the oddest things. Maybe it wasn’t the box, but its occupant. Narrowing his eyes against the glare of the street light, Jarreth could just make her out. The light seemed to be playing tricks. There was an odd glow coming from her jacket. Some new high priced LED-lined jacket, he whispered, trying to convince himself.

Must be one of those rich London girls… Still, he did what he always did, scanned her fingers for a ring. He’d discovered, as he entered his thirties, that he actually cared about that. Just a few years ago, he’d have kept his gaze a lot higher. No ring as far as he could see. She was animated on the phone. Hope it’s good news, he thought. It would make for a fantastic cheesy movie, if she was being courted or dumped in a London red phone box. He sat still so she wouldn’t see him. He didn’t want to disrupt her conversation. Maybe he would come back here and sketch the surroundings, and this new Muse he’d found in the box…

The fantasy was broken by the woman vacating it with quite a speed. The glow Jarreth had noticed shot off into the night.

He watched her run, and when she had rounded the street corner and disappeared from sight, he turned back to the box. Taking his hands and forming a small frame - how many times had he done that - he noticed something wrong. The purity of the box had been compromised.

Crazy bitch left the phone off the hook, he muttered. Slowly getting up from the sidewalk, he headed over to fix the disorder.

The question came to him as he stood in front of the phone: if he put the receiver back, would it ring? Gingerly picking up the phone, making sure to let the silver cord untangle, Jarreth placed it back within its cradle.

Nothing. No sudden life-changing call. Self-consciously aware of his disappointment, he left the box and closed its door.

Now you’re really losing it. He turned to walk back to the spot he’d found so comfortable before. One step, two steps, three, five, ten… He was just about to sit -

Riiiiing! Riiiiiing!

Fucking knew it! He took his place against the wall.

Riiiiiiing! Riiiiiiing!

"I am not getting that, he yelled at the box from across the street, so you can keep on ringing. It did. Fuck you, I’m not answering that," he muttered. It would stop in a minute. It would stop and he’d never know.

Curiosity had always been his greatest flaw. Leaving his wall and running to the box, Jarreth picked up the receiver. Hello?

You have to help me, a soft female voice answered. The static on the line cut out what she said next. And then, Find me. I’m at corner of - Silence, followed by static.

Listen, I couldn’t make out a thing you said. You keep cutting out. Say it slower. Nothing but the din of white noise answered him back. Hello? Can you hear me? Am I coming through? There’s nothing but static on the line.

Once again the voice said, "You have to help me… Find me. I’m at corner of static and -" Eerie and utter silence.

I still can’t hear…

Two loud, metallic sounds tore the silence. Jarreth stumbled, oddly off-balance, and dropped the receiver. The phone box seemed to be closing in on him. Looking around, scared and confused, he noticed two dime-sized holes in the glass and a silver cylindrical object sticking out of his abdomen.

Would fucking figure… I’m in a damned cliche. Jarreth fell backward against the door, and spilled out of the box. He grasped for the cylinder in his stomach, and felt a sharp pain in his neck as he turned his head. Wincing at the sudden sting, he brought his hand up. Another object was stuck in his neck. The cold, smooth metal hurt like fuck as he tried to pull it out, and he found his fingers refusing to obey. The light began to fade.

A sudden rush of footfalls was followed by disembodied voices. Stabilize him first, you idiot. We don’t want a repeat of last night. Dixon will kill us if we lose another one.

The voice growled through the deepening dark.

Why this one, Steve? He don’t seem like nothing…

You getting a curiosity, now? Don’t be bloody thick. Just do your job, get those darts out of him, stabilize him and get him in the truck. Now!

Jarreth could