Page 11 of No, You Hang Up

“Your porch light is out.” Patrice’s words are sour, and I can hear the accusation in them, like I somehow did it on purpose. “You know we require?—”

“Yeah, Patrice, I know. Can’t you hear me trying to flip it on?” I mumble, making loud, dramatic gestures so she hears my hand on the wall. “Fuck.” I reach for the pockets of my shorts, but my phone isn’t in them. Right, I remember. It’s back on the counter with the towel and my courage. “Do you have your phone on you? Could you?—?”

Light blinds me and I blink rapidly, groaning and covering my face with my hand. “At the light please, Patrice?” I ask. How this woman is too stupid not to shine that in my eyes but still be alive is far beyond me. But she does what I ask, and when I look up, my expression turns quizzical.

I’d expected a shattered bulb, or signs of it being burnt out. But it looks…fine. Stupidly, I reach my hand up, pressing my fingers to the still-warm bulb, and by accident, just by brushing it before I intend to, I realize it’s loose.

“What the hell?” I mutter, twisting it with my fingers gingerly. When it’s tight again, I flip the switch beside me, and the light flares back to life as if that were the answer all along. “That’s…so weird. Did you touch it?” I ask curiously, barely looking at Patrice.

The old woman scoffs, and she shoves her phone back into the pocket of her high waters. She really hasn’t left the late 2000s, with her hair in a stacked cut and frosted almost-blonde. Her light, colorless eyes are sharp, and even without looking down at her, I can feel the vehemence of her glare on me.

“Of course I didn’t touch your light,” she snapped. “It was probably one of your friends.”

I glance behind me at what feels like a breeze, but there’s nothing. It hadn’t even been anything, really. Just a movement of air, like something passing me by.

God, I hope I’m not about to be haunted by the ghost of Aunt Hortense. Because by that logic, if I were to off Patrice, she’d come back to haunt me too and I can’t handle that emotionally.

“Yeah…” I murmur, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, Patrice. Because that’s absolutely their idea of fun. Haven’t you heard?” I can’t help the sarcasm in my voice, or the way I add a drawl to my words. “That’s my generation’s new idea of fun. Lightbulb twisting. The one who gets burned the worst wins.”

She is not amused by my sarcasm, but I’m not amused by her presence, so I’m going to assume it evens out. Patrice shifts in place on my porch, and I just know she’s going through her mental list of half made up HOA violations to try to slap me with something after twelve thirty in the fucking morning.

“At least it was an easy fix. I take it you’re done for the night? No more friends coming and going? No more trucks stopping in front of your house, then creeping off?” she asks dryly.

I roll my eyes at her. “Yeah, Patrice. No more friends. No more trucks.” She’s already turning as I consider her words and mine.

Wait, trucks? Who the hell has a truck that would stop in front of my house? I consider calling out and asking her when that happened or what she was talking about, but I can’t bring myself to face my grand nemesis again.

But still…truck?

“Whatever.” I sigh under my breath as I watch her cross the street without fear or hesitation in her heart, shaking my head at the audacity. Sure, this road isn’t traveled much at night, but sometimes stupid teenagers try to gun it through here. Even so, I always look at both intersections a block away on each side just to make sure. When she reaches her porch, Patrice turns to me and I wave, fixing a smile on my face like I’m just being neighborly and not hoping some act of nature will smite her on the spot.

“You have a good night now, Patrice,” I mutter, glad she can’t hear me. “You drink your orange juice and suck up that spite so you’ll live another seventy goddamn years.” When she closes her door, I do as well, gazing down at it as I automatically lock the knob and flip the lever on the deadbolt. Now that she’s gone, I can?—

A black shape in the corner of my vision moves, drawing attention to it for the first time. With my eyes still on the door, I freeze, and my heart suddenly races in my chest. My fingers tighten, and slowly I force myself to look up, just as the shape leans more comfortably on the wall just beside my door, only inches from me.

For a few seconds, my brain refuses to make sense of what I’m seeing. Black jeans, a black sweatshirt. A black hood pulled up over dark hair and a face obscured by a shiny black mask, suddenly lit by a garish grin of glowing red lines.

I stand there, completely frozen, with my feet rooted to the floor.

I can’t move.

I can barelybreathe.

But then the figure moves, just to tilt his head and cross his arms loosely over his chest.

He’s wearing amask, and something tells me that’s not good.

But when I see the glint of the knife in his hand, I realize thatreallyisn’t good, and my brain kicks into high gear.

I turn toward the kitchen andrun.

six

Iswear I hear a husky, rolling chuckle from the person by the door as I slam to a stop at my counter, where I left my phone.

Only, as my hands and gaze skitter across the smooth, granite surface, I can’t seem to find it.

“I know I put it here…” I murmur, looking around and running my hands over the smooth surface again as if I’ve somehow missed it or it’s turned invisible.

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