He was in a cabin. A shack, really. It was in the upper reaches of the most isolated mountain in the range, surrounded by old-growth forest whose nearest interactions with humankind were sporadic flyovers by distant jets. Nothing and no one were within a hundred miles of the site.
On a spindly, three-legged table on the dirt floor was an ancient Bakelite telephone. The cord was a frazzled stub jutting into the air.
It was ringing.
After four months, he gave in. He lifted the receiver and held it to his ear with a trembling hand.
"Tag," said the voice.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment