WHO'S CALLING?

“Who’s calling?” Who is this?”

There was silence at the other end.

Well, not total silence. Someone was breathing into the receiver.

The mouth(his, hesr, or its) creepily close to the receiver.

But there were no words

Then the breathing stopped. And a muffled voice mumbled “203” enunciating the two, zero, and three. As though it might mean something to me?

“Speak up or hang up!” I shouted into the receiver of my landline.

Silence again.

Why didn’t have caller ID ? I wondered, besides wondering what I was still doing with a landline in 2026, anyway.

“ This isn’t the 203 area code, I don’t live at 203 anything, and I don’t play the numbers. And, hey, you goon, who are you calling and what do you want? If you don’t speak up, I’ll…”

I yelled, before realizing that the mystery caller had already hung up.

Why this, why now, when I was a month behind on the rent, on my grossly overpriced rent?

I, Shauna Cummings, am no shrinking violet. I have been catcalled in public, sexually harassed in private, and threatened in court with lawsuits by money-grubbing landlords, but those were assaults where I could see or at least know what was what. But this? This obnoxious call spooked me.

It came the next day. Not a phone call this time, but a letter in a square brown envelope With no postmark, no date. Actually, it was not a letter but just an envelope. There was nothing inside when I opened it. Until I reached inside, and felt a tissuey slip of paper (the kind you might get with an engraved invitation). It had that same number “203” stamped in the middle in a flowery font. Had it been hand-delivered?

If so, why to me, a single woman living on the fourth floor walk up? A single woman, new to the city, with no friends to speak of, unless you counted the nice Hungarian woman next door with the three-legged dachshund and the husband in the wheelchair. Or that short-tempered short-skirted babe in the employment agency who looked like Tammy Faye, and I knew neither Mrs. Szabo next door nor Liza at the agency had the time, the leisure, or the reason to make prank phone calls or send me letters with no letters inside.

Anyway, like most 28-year-old Manhattan newbies, I had bigger problems. Like paying the rent and eating at least twice a day, until a real job came up, if it ever did, (If not, I still had an emergency suitcase packed and waiting in the closet. Boise, Idaho, wasn’t a world away, although I wasn’t anxious to return with my tail between my legs after only a year of trying to become the actress I knew I was meant to be).

So, I ( what's the expression?) I “put 203 out of my mind”.

Except I didn’t because the next day, even before I had been contemplating getting out of my pajama bottoms, my doorbell buzzed and when I opened the door (keeping the chain on), there it was, an old-fashioned Western Union 20th-century telegram! I thought Western Union had gone out of fashion long before with floppy discs! Even so, who did I know who would send me a telegram and why? Who did I know who even knew what it meant to “send a wire”? I opened the envelope carefully, and there, inside was that number again ! “203” ! The sender was listed as John F Doe (sure!) with an equally fanciful phone number. Some clue!

What the hell! What the hell!? Now I was feeling alternately scared, angry and mystified.

Did whoever the sender was have me confused with some other single woman? (It had to be a him, didn’t it? ) Some woman who had jilted him? Maybe 203 was their secret code? Or maybe it stood for February 3, the day she (good girl!) left him standing at the altar?

Or was this just your typical freelance nut job who was picking on me, along with ten other defenseless women, out of garden-variety craziness ?

Calling the police was out of the question since 203 didn’t exactly sound like a threat, even a veiled one. And even if I could afford a private investigator, what would I tell him or her to look for?

“Shauna,” I said to myself, “ This is New York City. Crazy things come and go like city buses every minute of every day here. Hang tight.”

Since a gym membership (like owning a car) was beyond my pay grade, I decided to go for a free walk in the nearest park to clear my head. Or at least get some fresh air. As soon as I sat down on a park bench and began feeding the pigeons, a messenger boy on a delivery bike pulled up beside me and handed me a small box wrapped in baby blue paper. “You 203?” And before I could say a word, he had sped away. I stared at the box and balanced it in my palm as though it might be an explosive.

I needed to think. Had I wronged anyone in word or deed. At any time in the recent past?? Had I stolen anything, even by accident? Left a restaurant with the wrong coat, forgotten to pay a bill? Stifled or offended a friend or a stranger??

My mind (and my conscience) drew a blank. I was no aspiring criminal. My hands were shaking as I pulled the paper off the box and removed the lid. It was the kind of box you would expect to find a bracelet or a pair of earrings in, but this was no jewelry box. Inside sat a pile of teeny tiny candles, like birthday cake candles but much smaller. I knew without counting that there were 203 of them. My mouth felt dry, and my temples were pounding. What was the number 203 supposed to mean to me or to anybody? What did it refer to, and what was it asking me to do? Someone was obviously following me, but why?

Was three the charm? Would this harassment end with the candles? Or did my tormentor have more to come?

As long as I was out (maybe it was safer to be out in public than being a sitting duck in my apartment), I decided to stop at the farmers' market on my way home. My friend, small time forager, Mr. Amos, was saving me some first-of-the-season morels.

“Shauna, you’re in luck. Good timing,” He shook my hand and handed me a small carton wrapped in some alternative plastic. It felt and smelled earthy even at arm's length.

Just as I was stepping back to take a look at the tiny fall squashes at the end of the table, I bumped into a man in an overcoat who quickly grabbed my shoulders and set me back on my feet. Stress must have been messing with my equilibrium.

When I got back inside my apartment (and after locking and chaining the door) I unwrapped the carton (already smelling mushrooms and shallots smothered in brown butter in my imagination), and from the bottom, a thin piece of paper like a receipt (but folded up like a square of origami) fluttered to the kitchen floor, face down. I knew it wasn’t a receipt without turning it over,

I didn’t have to pick it up to know what it said.

It felt somehow that now my prized morels had been contaminated by this cruel ongoing taunt by parties unknown. I shoved my precious mushrooms to the back corner of the counter.

This 203 mind game was ruining whatever was left of my mental health. I felt like barricading myself inside the apartment the way I had as a kid when I was alone and scared, when my parents had gone off without leaving a note. I felt like wrapping myself in blankets and sitting in the back of the bedroom closet. In the dark. Safe in the dark.

But besides being childish, that would be giving in, letting him or them win this stupid or possibly sinister game. Just then, there was a knock at my door. Apparently, the jokester had found a way into the building. Was it the jokester? Or maybe he lived here. Maybe he lived right next to me? What would it be this time, a bunch of 203 roses or 12 roses with 203 thorns? Actually that would be useful.

There was a second knock. For once, I wished ‘Id had a handgun, if for nothing else than the intimidation factor. But I didn’t have anything more deadly than a not very sharp chef’s cleaver and an outsized umbrella.

There was a third knock. I have never opened a door with more reluctance or trepidation. But maybe this time I could catch the culprit in the act of making a crazy person out of me.

“I know this sounds stupid, and we haven't met”.

It was a woman in her twenties with a messy bun on top of her head wearing an off-the-shoulder shirt and yoga pants. She smiled nervously. “ Oh, I’m Angie from 501. And sorry to bother you. But can I ask you if you have received any notes or messages or anything at all with the number 203 on them? like, over the last three days?”

All I could do was stare at her. Was she the culprit?

“I know you think I’m crazy if you haven’t been playing. But it’s this kind of sort of a monthly neighbourhood scavenger hunt based on numbers. If you have received three items or had three instances involving the number 203, you could be in the running to win a year’s free rent! .The items or circumstances could be anything. For example, I adopted this cute guinea pig from the pet shop down the street, and I found the number 203 under his collar when I got home. Isn’t that clever?”

Clever definitely wouldn’t have been the word I would have used. I stared at her, trying to understand the words coming out of her mouth. “I’m Shauna”, I finally admitted. “ Nobody told me about the game.”

“Oh, Shauna, I am so sorry. I thought everyone here on this floor, on the whole block really got the notice a week ago. And now it’s too late to win anything. I’m sorry you missed out. I didn’t win either. It’s so much fun. But there/’ll be a next time.”

“No, Angie, I didn’t miss out. And neither did you. How are you fixed for teeny tiny birthday candles? 203 of them?”