The Voice

The crisp blue words were slowly drowned in red. Pressed onto sharp, tough, and expensive paper, the blood twitched in excitement as the words lay paralysed. As if a snake circling a trapped rat, it readied itself to strike.

Over a billion pounds of junk mail end up in landfill each year. Bullshit words printed on wasted paper. Want a bigger dick? Want more money? Or a promotion, a new life, a new car, a new neighbour - Scams, that’s all they are. Scams, sometimes they come in suits, sometimes they’re the people who pass you in the street and sneer, but they’re all the same. Scams. They want something from you. Once you smell it, it never leaves. Bullshit all smells the same, no matter who it comes out of. It’s all the same and it’s all bullshit. You’ll see.

Let’s take a man. He’s received the very same letter so often he could recognise it without even opening it. He knew its weight, its shape, its touch and could recite the words inside verbatim until he fell asleep alone, at three thirty AM, each night.

One afternoon in late September, it arrived, as normal, and sat inside his front door. Too busy to notice it, packing his bags for a small business trip he’d forgotten about. A trip he didn’t want to go to, one with a large gathering of higher ups in a fancy hotel across country, and one that he knew would be a waste of time. Nothing but empty handshakes, painted smiles, dry conversation, and a free hotel room. He’d thought about calling in sick, thought about saying he had plans, but it wouldn’t of worked, people on top know what bullshit smells like, so he’s going to go.

As he dragged his bags to the front door, and dropped them with a thud, he sees it waiting for him. He goes to do as he normally does, to pick it up and drop it without thinking into the waste basket. To drop it, and move on with his life.

But this time something else happens along the way.

As his fingers dragged along it’s skin as it fell from his grip and into the waste, he felt something new. There was something else in the envelope, something smaller tucked inside. He could feel the outline of it swelling to get out. Like a tumour bursting against the skin, or a blister you had to pop, itching, itching, itching.

But I want him to tell you the rest.

I have my keys, I have my wallet, I have a taxi beeping in the dark outside my door like an asshole, and I am ready to go. But as I pass the waste basket, I pass the letter dropped on top, and reach the door. The moment the cold stained handle touches my fingers, there’s a ringing behind me. I hesitate for a moment, knowing I should ignore it, but the taxi beeps again, and I want to make him mad. Like he’s making me. Like the way he parked on the other side of the street in the pouring fucking rain. Like the way he knows I’m going to the airport and therefore, will have fucking bags.

I lifted the phone to my ear and remember each second like a crystal clear projection that loops in my head. I asked who was there, but heard nothing back. I went to open the door to signal the taxi to shut up, but as I did, I heard it breath. A soft breath on the other side of the phone that caused me to stop. One soft breath, and then an ungodly mechanical scream. I could almost feel my ear bleed from the shock. I dropped my phone directly to the floor, directly below where I stood, and directly into the waste basket.

I don’t know why I took it. I don’t know why I kept it tucked awkwardly into my jacket pocket the entire time, and I’m not sure why I was so uncomfortable. But when I saw the phone laying beside the letter, something inside me called out, telling me to take it. I was too afraid to open it, but too curious to let it go.

My right ear pulsed and burned as the scream echoed inside my head. Each second, from the door to the taxi, from the taxi to the airport, from the screaming kid behind me to the douche at security, I swear it was there. The breathing against my neck, I kept twitching and trying to wipe it away, but it stayed. Stuck to my neck, clawing at my ear, itching at the back of my right eye.

I’m tired on the plane, but I can’t sleep. The envelope in my jacket cuts into my breast. The shriek of laughter behind me continues to laugh as the windows blow out and we dive thirty thousand feet to our death. Strapped in the chair the fat guy beside me gets sucked out, and as I look through the hole in the plane and see the ground getting bigger, I still feel the fucking envelope against my chest.

I throw myself up right, still laughter behind, still the envelop cuts deeper, but the windows are together. Even when I dream the envelopes still there with me.

The clang of cutlery itches in my ear. Now I’m in the hotel dressed in a suit, my hairs combed to one side and I’m surrounded by bullshit. The card now cuts so deep that I’m not sure if it's sweat or blood that runs down my chest. The twitching is stronger now, I keep feeling it against my neck — I want to stand on a table and scream, but I don’t.

Before long, my suit’s sticky with sweat, my eyes jump around like a spiders web in the wind, and my skin itches with each twist. I’d become swallowed by the card against my chest. I was stalked by the sharp aching in my neck, each check over my shoulder only heightened it’s grip. I couldn’t breath, it was coming back I knew it was coming back, whoever was on the phone was coming back for me, I knew it.

Until, finally, I felt it. Before it wanted me to, I spotted it because I kept an eye out, I knew it would come back and I felt it before it wanted me to. Before it could scream, before it could itch inside my ear I felt it breath. It breathed against my neck, just like before.

So I threw myself to the ground with a yelp, knocking glasses and suits to the side.

It turns out that when you have sixty people in a room talking bullshit, it gets hot. So one of the well trained staff members decided to turn on the air con. The air con above where I stood. Someone in a suit, a CEO type, a supervisor type, the type that can get you fired, an older man type, looked pissed off. He vaguely attempted to dry the damp that dripped from his face, but focused more of his effort on ordering me to leave.

I’m not sure how long I sat there in my room. It was dark though, I know this, and I sat, staring at the envelope, until eventually I ripped it open in a flash of bravery.

Typed in blue ink, it read:

Hello Mr James Clarke,

I have an offer I believe you’d be interested in. It’s something no one else can offer you, and nothing you can get alone. I’m not after your money, I know you have little. Instead I need something of more value. Your faith, Mr Clarke, your faith is all I require.

What is there in life, if not for goals. What is there for goals, if not achieved. What is there for achievement, if there is no time.

I can watch over you, Mr Clarke. Each night you dream of more, but each day you are left empty handed. Faith in me shall flourish in you. I can watch over you, Mr Clarke.

The other letters I have sent you, they took time to write, but I will endure the anger to offer you a final chance. Remember, Mr Clarke, kindness from above weeps rage when unappreciated. This final letter will end differently, this time I leave you with a gift, Mr Clarke.

Falling from the envelope, it landed with a thud. The sharp corner pierced the thin fleshy skin under my thumb, and blood instantly began to fill the cracks in my palm. There were cards, tucked into the envelope. That was what I felt, small buisness cards. Three, to be exact. I flipped over them in my palm, one by one, and one by one I was pulled up to my knees.

The firsts was the CEO’s of my company. His number, his assistance number, and everything else burned in gold onto the sharp black paper. It was real, I had seen it before. I struggled to breath.

Next was the card of the hotel I now twitched inside of. It had black ink crushed against off white paper. Paper that my blood now wormed through. On the back, scrawled in pen, was the number of the room I now vomited inside of. I struggled to breath.

It took me a moment to see straight once again, as the fear bubbled above my skin and thrashed my insides. This person knew where I was, they had written this long before today, and they knew where I would be.

The third card was one I’d never seen before. ‘The Voice’, it read, along with a phone number below. Stamped blue words, pressed onto sharp, tough, and expensive paper.

‘The Voice’, it read, along with a phone number, and the command to call.

I can’t tell you the number, I’m not allowed. I was too afraid to call though, too freaked out, and for at least an hour I did nothing but panic and think about calling the police. Instead, for some reason, I text the number and asked who it was.

Someone with reach. It replied. Ask for anything, and I’ll prove I’m here for you. Your faith shall be rewarded, Mr Clarke. — V

Another hour passed, it was now three thirty in the morning, and my hotel room TV stuck on the store page with a long list of movies. So I replied, I asked to watch one of the movies for free. I thought it would shut up whoever was on the other end, but after silence, it replied:

Too easy. Try harder. Your faith shall be rewarded. — V

I began to feel more confident that this was just a prank, so instead I asked for a free, and expensive, slice of cake that the hotel room service offers in their little bedroom menus.

Clarke, you think too small. Anything in the world can be yours if you simply ask. Think bigger. Your faith shall be rewarded, always. — V

I looked to my right, and I stared out the window and over the city. I smiled. I smiled as I reached for my phone, and text back only one word.

Fireworks.

I could tell it was excited, The Voice, it replied in an instant.

Fantastic Mr Clarke, stand by your window and your faith shall be rewarded. — V

I pulled myself up, stood at the window and waited.

Nothing happened.

Just the quiet city street, the soft lake water and my half reflected smile looking back. Until I heard a noise. It was behind me. A knocking. Room service, and they’ve brought a slice cake, for free, she adds. But that was quickly lost when the TV screen flicked over and began to play a movie. An expensive adult one that would show up as something else on the receipt.

Through the moans on my TV my breath grew sharper. I slowly turned around to look over the city.

It was disgusting. Violent. Impressive. Perfect. A powerful three step beat. Boom. Boom. Boom. Off to one side, but perfectly in view. Boom. Boom. Boom. The remains tumbled onto the streets, and I stood with shaking knees. Boom. Boom. Boom. The hotel across the river now burned as its beds dripped from its insides and onto passers below. I could almost hear the flapping of the shredded curtains in the wind, and taste the ash in the air from where I stood.

The phone began to shake, and without even looking I brought it to my face and answered. The Voice told me not to speak, and asked that if anything could happen right now, if my biggest worry could grow wings and fly, what would it be and why.

It was all over the news the next day. Two hotels with horrific incidents. The first was an explosion caused by a freak gas leak. The fully booked hotel was now nothing but a smouldering skeleton standing over the streets.

The second was the mysterious death of over sixty employees of a large bank, that all suffered deadly carbon monoxide poisoning in their sleep. Only one employee survived. The hotel was eventually shut down. Sued again and again. The owner killed herself a few months ago now.

I didn’t want to be fired, and I just asked that no one find out about my bizarre actions that night. The sweating, spilling the drink, the strange behaviour, all of it. I would have lost my job, you have to understand. I would have been fucked. I just asked that no one find out.

I was disgusted, horrified and sick at what happened. But, you have to realise, it was all so brilliant. How did it do it?! The Voice never told me how and over the years it let me ask for anything. It gave me my wife, my home, my new job, the new car and all the money I could need. Each issue I had, each bully, and each problem; I called The Voice and it took away. Once or twice I just called to see if it could do a crazy idea that popped into my head. Clear traffic, tell me secrets about people I knew, make entire movies that were in production get shut down overnight, and on, and on. We became friends. We grew close.

At least I thought. Each time the call ended, The Voice reminded me, as it did at the hotel.

“What I offer is not a program, but a contract, and contracts have rules.”

There was a limit. Each call was timed, each time added together, and once it hit that total, it was over. Five hours. If I passed that time, by a second or less, the very moment it ticked over, was the moment I’d broken the rule. And all rules have punishments, as The Voice says.

You’d be surprised how quickly you go through five hours over the course of three years. I’d kept a record myself, each time I called. Thirteen minutes and twenty seconds, fifteen and three, three and four, five and two, on and on. My record held it at a total of four hours, fifty nine minutes and forty eight seconds. I had twelve seconds left, but like The Voice said, I didn’t have to call. I could of left it at that, and never worried about the time again. But I had no choice.

The Voice won’t let me tell you any more than that. The Voice is telling me what to write. I’m on the phone with it right now, and I’ve gone over the time. I broke the contract, and the rule. I’ve asked for some bad things in my life, I know, but also some good. I had no choice when it came to this one, I had no choice.

Elizabeth looked down from the note, and noticed the blood now swallowed her feet. Each drop of blood echoed in the warehouse, as it fell from the table just in front of her, and onto the cold floor. Elizabeth fucked up. Elizabeth shouldn’t be here. This morning she was suspended from the police force. Evidence went missing from her investigation into a series of mysterious deaths, so she got the blame. So she was called in, and then sent home. Sent home to find something missing from her house, before finding a note in its place. The note lead her to a warehouse, to James Clarke, a man who was reported missing over three days ago.

The note continues:

I did some good, I promise. My wife, I loved her, The Voice could do anything, I’ve seen it. Anything at all, and The Voice has never lied. I have faith, and I shall be rewarded. I tried to speak as fast as I could, but I stuttered too much. They said it was terminal, I had no choice. The Voice said it would be fixed, as I’d asked, for old times sake, but I went over the time. It took fifteen seconds and I broke the contract. Five hours and three seconds. But she was going to die, I had no choice.

When the time is up, The Voice will listen, and The Voice shall speak. The Voice will tell you to die, and The Voice must be heard.

Elizabeth stuffed the blood soaked note into her pocket, and pulled her missing pistol free from James Clarke’s dead hands. James Clarke, who was sat at a small metal table, in the centre of a dark warehouse, lit by only a single light and slumped, leaking blood, with a hole in his head.

On the table, beside James Clarke’s phone, laid the crisp blue words that were about to drown in red. Pressed onto sharp, tough, and expensive paper, the blood twitched in excitement as the words lay paralysed. As if a snake circling a trapped rat, it readied itself to strike.

It was The Voice’s business card, and scrawled on the back were the words: You wanted to find me Elizabeth, so give me a call, and your faith shall be rewarded.

End.