Note to readers: This story is
a revised version of an earlier story I published to my blog titled Prank Call.
If you wish to read the original, please browse through the archives on the
right-hand side of the page, or just click this link:
MISCHIEF
NIGHT
By Daniel
Skye
Five simple words echoed through the speakers of Melissa
Alden’s phone and chilled her to the core. “You’re going to die tonight.”
The caller’s voice was distorted, yet she could clearly
make out their tone. They didn’t speaker in a threatening manner, they spoke
sincerely. And that’s what truly disturbed her.
“You’re going to die tonight.” The caller had said it in
such a matter-of-fact way. The same way you’d tell a person where you were born
and raised when asked, or what schools you attended.
There was nothing urgent or pressing about the caller’s
statement. Though, they did seem in a bit of a rush to get off the line once
the message was received.
Melissa
never even had a chance to respond. The phone rang twice; she answered and
heard heavy breathing, followed by the haunting words, “You’re going to die
tonight.” Then the line went dead.
She
didn’t try *69, as the number came up blocked on her caller ID. Instead,
Melissa dialed 911, and an operator connected her with Suffolk County police.
The local police worked fast and hard to trace the call, although they were
slightly unsuccessful in their efforts.
They
were in fact able to trace the number…to a store-bought mobile phone with no
GPS. The caller had used a prepaid phone card to add minutes to the phone and
place the call. And tracing one particular phone card to one particular
location was seen as a major waste of time and resources to the police,
especially when the police were convinced that this was the work of a prank
caller. Four more people had called the station that evening with claims of a
similar call being placed to them.
It was
October 30th, otherwise known as Mischief Night. And the cops were receiving an
influx of complaints from local residents about prank calls, spray-painters,
acts of petty vandalism and wanton destruction.
The
police said if the creep called her again that she could dial them from a
different phone–her cell phone perhaps–and they would try and pinpoint the
location while she still had the creep on the line.
Melissa
Alden had no enemies, no crazed stalkers. She was happily married with two kids
in college. She managed a department store and all the employees adored and
respected her. How many bosses can honestly say that?
Shane,
her husband, was a construction worker whose free time revolved around hockey,
football, model trains, and most importantly, family.
Devout
Catholics, the Alden’s attended Mass every Sunday, with or without their
children present. And Shane was always the most generous when it came to the
collection plate.
Why on Earth would anyone want to harm me?
Melissa wondered. Not just harm me. KILL
ME.
As
soon as she finished speaking with the police, she dialed Shane. His cell went
straight to voicemail. She tried two or three more times and got the same
result.
Then
she bravely did a full sweep of the house; she checked every closet, made sure
every door and window was locked. The basement door didn’t have a lock on the
outside and could not be locked by key. But there were windows in the basement
that a person could easily smash and crawl inside if they so desired. So
Melissa grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and wedged it firmly under the
knob.
If she
heard the glass shatter, she could be out the front door in five seconds before
an intruder even had time to realize the basement door was jammed.
She
remembered the Snub .38 that Shane kept loaded in a shoebox under the bed. She
was cursing herself for never learning how to use it. Shane had offered
multiple times to take her down to the shooting range, but Melissa just
couldn’t get into the idea. Guns were never her style. Just the thought of
holding a loaded gun in her hand was enough to make her entire body quiver.
After
she conducted her search of the house, Melissa sat in the living room for
hours, her back against the wall as she watched television at low volume. Every
light in the house was on. The place was lit up like Yankee Stadium. She had
taken a butcher knife from the knife block on the faux-marble countertop and
was clutching onto handle like it was a new appendage.
Her
mind was racing, her heart pulsing. Where
the hell are you, Shane? I need you here.
Melissa
knew of Shane’s after-work ritual. Every evening after he punched out at work,
he’d swing by the BBQ Shack with his co-workers for a pulled pork sandwich. And
if they twisted his arm enough, he’d follow them over to a local bar and knock
back a few beers before returning home.
It was
one of the few things Shane Alden did that irritated his wife, but she was
always willing to look past his minor imperfections. And at that moment, all
she wanted was for Shane to be at her side, to assure her everything was going
to be all right.
The
front door of the house sometimes sticks when you try to open it from the
outside. You have to give it a hard push every once in a while to pry it open.
When she heard that hard push, followed by the door bouncing off the inside
wall and swinging back, she screamed loud enough for the whole neighborhood to
hear.
“Jeez,”
Shane said, dusting snow off the shoulders of his jacket as he stepped past the
threshold of the door. He walked over to the living room where Melissa was
cowering in the corner. “What’d you see a spider crawl under the couch or
something?”
“Shane!”
She exclaimed.
“That’s
my name,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Are you ok, babe? You look
really pale. And are you holding a knife behind your back?”
“Why
was your cell phone off? I tried calling you so many times.”
“My
battery died on the ride home from work. Sorry it took so long. I didn’t want
to, but Louis insisted on stopping for a beer. Now what the heck is going on
here?”
“I got
this weird phone call a few hours ago. Someone threatened me.”
“What’d
they say?”
“I
don’t even want to repeat it,” she sighed. “I’m just so happy you’re home.”
“Oh
come on,” Shane shrugged again. “How bad could it be?”
“They
said, ‘you’re going to die tonight’. Then the line was dead.”
“It’s
probably just some punk teenager trying to scare you. It is the night before
Halloween, after all. Mischief Night. People love to play pranks around this
time of year. Someone did that to my aunt once. Scared the daylights out of
her. You’ve got nothing to worry about now. You’re safe with me. So put that
knife away before you hurt me accidently.” He chuckled as she lowered the knife
and placed it on the glass coffee table. Then she wrapped her arms around him
like it was the first time she had seen him in years.
“I’m
so glad you’re home, Melissa reiterated.
“Me
too,” Shane said as she released her grip around his waist, and he removed his
gloves and jacket. “I hope you didn’t make too much for dinner,” he said as he
stepped out into the hallway and headed for the staircase. “I’m all filled up
on barbequed pulled pork.”
When
Shane had removed his gloves and winter jacket, he had tossed them aside on the
floor; an unbreakable habit that irked Melissa every time he did it.
As
Melissa unwrinkled and neatly folded Shane’s jacket, his phone slid out from
the pocket. But it wasn’t Shane’s iPhone that landed on the beige rug. It was a
cheap flip-cover phone; a brand she didn’t even recognize. One of those drug
dealer phones you’d buy at a pharmacy or a 7-11.
She
should’ve stopped right there, turned around, and ran straight for the front
door. But Melissa had to know for sure.
She
dug her hand into the pocket that the phone had fallen from, and her fingers
brushed a thin slab of rectangular-shaped plastic. She drew her hand from the
pocket and held the phone card up to the light of the ceiling fixture. The card
had been recently activated, as the spot where you obtain the code to activate
the card had been scratched away with a coin.
“Tell
me if this sounds familiar,” Shane crowed from the hallway. Melissa turned and
froze at the sight of the Snub .38 in his hand. “You’re going to die tonight.”
While
the rest of her body remained frozen, her lip was quivering involuntarily and
her hands were tremoring at her sides.
Shane
lowered the gun almost instantly, when he saw all the color drain from face. It
looked as if she was about to keel over.
“Oh,
honey,” Shane said, lowering the gun gently to the floor. “It was just a joke.
I’m so sorry. I guess I went a little overboard.”
“You
sick bastard!” she screamed, running over to bat his chest with her tiny fists.
“You scared me half to death! Why on Earth would you do this to me? The phone
call was more than enough.”
“Honey,
I didn’t make that call,” Shane insisted. “I swear. I just saw how jumpy you
were and I thought I’d have a little fun at your expense. Did you really think
I was going to shoot you?”
“I
found the phone card, Shane,” Melissa said, pointing towards the jacket he
carelessly discarded on the rug. “And I found the phone. You’re not fooling
me.”
“Oh…I’m
so sorry, Melissa. I never meant for you to find that. I honestly didn’t make
that call. The phone…I use it to call my supervisor.”
“Why
can’t you just call him on your regular…” Melissa trailed off when she
remembered meeting Shane’s supervisor once at a company Christmas party. His
supervisor was a woman, not a man. And that’s when it dawned on her what Shane
was trying to convey.
Before
Melissa could blow a gasket and go off on a profanity-laced tirade that Shane
certainly had coming to him, a noise grabbed her attention. It was faint and
unclear, but it almost sounded like glass crunching underfoot.
“Did
you hear that?” she asked.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Shane responding. Then he
added, “Oh, I moved that chair away from the basement door. I guess you did
that when you got that phone call. Well, there’s nothing to worry about now.”
“Shane,” Melissa gasped, her body suddenly quaking again.
Her throat was dry and she was on the edge of shock, but she ultimately managed
to utter the words, “Behind you.”
Shane
Alden turned to face what was eagerly waiting behind him. A man, nearly seven
feet tall, his face shrouded by a crude mask of what could only be deduced as
rotting flesh. A butcher’s apron was tied around the waist of this giant and at
his side, his catcher’s-mitt-sized hand grasping at a crimson stained machete.
The
blade cut through the air with a vicious swipe, decapitating Shane with one
quick strike.
The
towering figure stepped forward, machete still in hand. “Hello, Melissa,” the
giant spoke, using a small voice box that distorted his speech. “We finally
meet.”
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