Dead Line

Ore snuck out of the dairy farm, got on the motorcycle he had hidden away, and rode north. Every day since Yuri’s death was a cacophony of painful memories and ominous pauses. He wasn’t sure if movement helped or not. As with Yuri’s frequent walks, he couldn’t tell if he was going somewhere, running from something, or both. Still, moving felt like he was doing something, so he kept going.

New Jersey is a strange place, the only state to have its own cryptid, the Jersey Devil. When they were younger, he and Yuri explored the many of the weird places associated with the state’s (sub)urban mythology. It felt like everything was more intense back then, the colors brighter, the sounds clearer. The constant anticipation, suspense, and fear that permeated their adventures always kept him on edge when they were together. It was hard to think of anything else when confronted by a strange sound in an abandoned building or a deep growl in a dark forest. Ore always felt that Yuri was braver than him, but in an effort to impress her, he always went along with her whims. He could always muster up courage if it was for her. Alone now, he kept going out of habit. Is this what real courage was? An imitation bravado you keep at even when there is nobody left to impress?

Together they had criss-crossed much of the state, so now he could hardly drive ten minutes in any direction before there was something that reminded him of their life together. He remembered a practical joke they once played on a friend of theirs, who wanted to join them on one of their adventures. Back then Ore and Yuri didn’t care much for company when exploring. They were like a binary star system, where the introduction of a third would only throw off the harmonious balance. Still, this guy was persistent, and they were running out of excuses, so they devised a plan to make it so he would think twice before asking them again.

They took him to an old abandoned high school. Built in the mid 19th century, the place caught fire in the 1920s and the school was relocated. In the 1950s it was cheaply fixed up by an electrics company, which operated out of it for a few years until another fire drove them out. After that it remained abandoned, getting more and more covered by graffiti, as the surrounding nature relentlessly reclaimed it.

They went there late at night. People had been arrested there before for trespassing, since it was something of an open secret in the area and attracted all sorts of visitors. The chance of getting caught was lower at night. The cops would still drive past it on their patrols, but they too were creeped out by the dilapidated old building with a shady past, and generally wouldn’t get too close if there were no cars parked nearby or lights visible from the outside.

Having been there a few times before, and knowing the layout well, Ore and Yuri didn’t need flashlights to get to the schoolhouse, so they led their third wheel by the light of the moon. They took their friend to the scariest classroom in the building, one used most frequently by visitor because its windows did not face the road, lowering the likelihood of being noticed from the outside. Old, rusted desks, topped with decaying wood were arranged in a circle in the middle of the room, and in the circle’s center there was something like a fire pit. The ceiling was covered with soot that stretched out like an explosion of squid ink. The walls were covered in graffiti, with reversed pentagrams, swastikas, and marks of the Beast to add to the frightening atmosphere in an almost theatrical fashion.

As they were exploring the room, their friend’s phone suddenly started ringing. It was exactly midnight. He looked up at Ore, “I don’t recognize this number.”

“Answer it,” Ore replied, in a reassuring voice.

“Hello?”

The night was eerily quiet, so they could all hear the sounds on the other line without speakerphone. A deep voice bellowed: “You’ve been a bad boy. It’s time for detention,” before breaking into a cackling laugh and hanging up.

“What the hell was that,” their friend stuttered in a terrified voice, looking imploringly at Ore and Yuri, who seemed as confused as him, and just looked questioningly at each other.

He tried to call the number back. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service,” came the automated message.

“Nuh-uh, screw this,” their friend shouted, “let’s get out of here!” He scrambled for the door, tripping over the scattered debris. In the hallways, one of the floorboards broke, and he got his leg stuck, which only heightened his freak out. Yuri helped him get his foot free, and they all ran out of the building and down the road. For years after he would tell people the story of that night as the scariest thing that ever happened to him, and for all those years Ore and Yuri kept the truth secret from him.

Yuri knew somebody who had just moved into a new building, and asked him to call their friend’s number at midnight from the landline and to unplug it afterwards, predicting that their friend would try to figure out who it was from the caller ID. The plan worked like a charm, and the friend never asked to join them on their adventures again, while simultaneously developing an exaggerated respect for their explorations.

Thinking back on it now, the hoax seemed cruel. There was something especially terrifying about a voice coming from an unknown place that cannot be reached. Such is the voice of death. Such is the voice of madness. Such is the voice of God.

What was he doing following the dream voice of the dead Yuri, which could be nothing but a trick played by his own conscience? What did it mean that this memory chose to resurface now?