Last Words

Marion Song stared apprehensively at the telephone that sat on a low table across the room. She had never seen anything like it before. It was an old, dial-up Bakelite model coloured in a peculiar shade of green.

She studied the rest of her surroundings, taking in the heavy black drapes, deep red carpet and the six candles arranged beyond the telephone in a loose semi-circle. The air was cold, and she felt goosebumps break out across her bare arms.

Someone cleared their throat loudly, and Marion felt the spell break. The shopkeeper stood next to her, checking his watch. He was a small man with thinning hair and watery eyes that were framed by large spectacles.

“Are you ready to begin?” he asked in an impatient tone that suggested he had better things to do at the moment.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a halting tone. “I mean, I want to. It’s just that I’ve never tried anything like…this before.”

The shopkeeper huffed. “Look, if you want a phony séance, you can go to Mystic Meg down the street. But this? I promise you it’s the real deal.”

She nodded quickly. “Alright, alright. I believe you. It’s just…weird. Is this really supposed to work?”

“Lady believe me, trying to get in touch with a dead loved one ain’t exactly normal.” He shrugged. “I didn’t even believe in this stuff. At first. But the phone belonged to my grandmother, and my grandmother never lied to me.”

He walked towards the phone; past the armchair she was seated on. “Would you like to go over the steps again?”

“Sure,” Marion nodded. She felt woozy. It wasn’t like the room was filled with choking incense or anything, like some other establishments she had been to. In fact, the air smelled rather odd, like metal. But there was a growing ache in her temples that she couldn’t explain.

“Right. First, did you bring a photograph of your mother like I told you to?”

“I did.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an old polaroid – her mother as a young woman in Seoul. “Is this one okay?”

“It’ll do,” the shopkeeper grunted. He reached behind the table holding the phone and produced a copper plate. The design looked…old. Older than anything Marion had ever seen anyway, and the metal was patchy with greenish rust.

“Here’s how it works,” he began. “You put the picture in plate. Give six drops of blood. No more than six, you hear me?”

Marion swallowed and managed a weak nod.

“Good, I’ll have a band-aid ready for you after the session. Now, back to business. Six drops of blood, and then I’ll light the candles for you and head out. Here’s the important part.

“After I leave, you need to speak your mother’s name six times. Don’t use a nickname, or anything like that. Her full name, you hear? The one she was given at birth. If everything goes the way it’s supposed to, that phone is going to ring. With me so far?”

“I…I think so,” Marion stammered. She was started to sweat a little. Why did she have to follow-up on that Reddit thread her best friend had sent her? She should’ve just given up.

“Good,” the shopkeeper nodded. “Now when the phone starts ringing, you need to pick up on the sixth ring. After that, you can talk. But remember to pay attention to the candles.”

“What about the candles?” she asked, feeling increasingly lost.

“Steady on there, lady. Now’s not the time to get nervous. Once you start talking, the candles are going to go out. One by one, and it’s different for everyone. So don’t take your eyes off the candles.

“Talk to your mother. Say whatever it is you’ve got to say. But, hang up before the sixth candle goes out. This is very, very important. You need to hang up the phone.”

“Hang up,” Marion nodded, almost to herself. “Sure, I can do that. I can hang up.” The she paused. “What happens if I don’t hang up on time?”

The shopkeeper shrugged. “Don’t know. We’ve never had a customer break the rules.” But he wouldn’t meet her eyes and Marion shuddered slightly.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” he said, tilting his head. “But we don’t do refunds. So, what’ll it be?”

Leaning back in the chair, Marion thought about her mother. The woman who’d come to America while pregnant, just to give her child a better chance at life. The woman who started a dry-cleaning business to support her new family. The woman who found the courage to leave her abusive husband for the sake of her daughters.

The woman who insisted her eldest stay at Oxford to finish her doctorate. Despite the distance. Despite the costs. Despite the cancer.

Tears welled in Marion’s eyes. In the end, she never got to hear her mother’s last words. Never got to thank her. And she thought she never would. Until now.

“I’m ready,” she said softly, after a long moment of silence. Marion reached into her purse and pulled out a pocket knife. It was a petite little thing, with a pearl handle. It had been her mother’s.

“Let’s get to it then,” the shopkeeper said with a tight smile. He handed her the dish and Marion placed the photo on it. Then she pressed the edge of the knife into the pad of her thumb until blood began to well up.

Holding her hand above the dish, Marion squeezed and counted as ruby droplets fell onto the picture of her mother. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. She withdrew her hand quickly, and passed the dish back to the shopkeeper.

“Nicely done,” he said quietly, walking across the room and placing the dish at the base of the table holding the phone. She watched as he pulled out a tapered lighter from his pocket and lit each candle slowly.

The shopkeeper dimmed the lights in the room and favoured her with a smile that seemed more genuine this time. It almost made Marion forget about the fear in his eyes. “Good luck, I guess,” he said, and walked out.

And then she was alone. The sounds of traffic from outside were muffled, and she could hear the soft crackling of the candles as they began to burn down.

“This is so stupid,” she whispered to herself. “So stupid.”

She stood up, and closed her eyes. Her mother’s face sprang forth in her mind. Marion saw her the way she chose to remember her, before the sickness, bright and full of life. And she spoke:

“Song Ha-eun. Song Ha-eun. Song Ha-eun.”

Marion hesitated, and steeled herself to continue.

“Song Ha-eun. Song Ha-eun.”

Mom, please. Please.

“Song Ha-eun.”

Silence. Marion found herself staring at the phone, her heart pounding in her chest. Had she done something wrong? She felt a bead of sweat run down her back. The phone remained stubbornly silent. She was supposed to call out for her mother six times…right? Or had it been five?

She began to sit up, a sinking feeling in her chest. She’d been kidding herself. Of course this was fake. She walked towards the phone and examined it more closely. The damn thing wasn’t even connected. No wire running down the back. She tried turning the dial, but it didn’t budge, and all the numbers were scratched out.

It might as well have been a toy. Sighing, Marion steeled herself in preparation of confronting the shopkeeper and demanding her money back. She turned and started walking out of the room.

And then the phone rang.

Marion froze. It rang again and she shivered. The sound was high and shrill. It made her think of rending metal, the sound of a can being opened. It rang a third time and she spun around, her heart thundering in her chest. She hastily walked back to the phone and stood in front of it.

It rang a fourth time. Marion’s hand hovered above the device, fingers twitching with what felt like anticipation but deep down she knew to be fear. The phone rang a fifth time and she reached down, grabbing the handset. The sensation made her gasp. The dull green acryllic was warm, almost hot. And it felt…wet.

The phone rang a sixth time and Marion picked up, holding the handset close to her right ear. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, and waited.

For a long time, there was nothing but more silence. Marion could hear a vague, faraway sound. It sounded strange, like the crackling of ice beneath a frozen lake.

And then she heard a voice.

“Annyeong,” it said. A single, trembling word, but it was enough.

“Eomma,” she breathed, and immediately burst into tears. “Eomma, it’s me. It’s Ha-yoon.”

The line crackled again, and Marion’s eyes widened as she saw the first candle wink out in a small puff of smoke.

“Ha-yoon?” Her mother’s voice sharpened into a hiss. “Ha-yoon, you must go away, now!”

Confusion flooded Marion, and she began to babble. “Go away? What do you mean? I miss you. I just wanted to talk to you. I…I couldn’t come back to see you. Before. Before you…”

Her mother lapsed from English into her native Korean, her voice shaking in fury. “And you think it was smart to speak to me this way? Foolish girl! Foolish, foolish child.”

The second candle extinguished, and Marion blinked away the hot tears rolling down her face. “I…I don’t understand.”

“They look for me, Ha-Yoon! You called to me, and now they look for me. I am not meant to be here. Go away now, for your own sake! They must not see you.”

The room began to fill with a strange, buzzing sound. Marion looked around frantically and noticed that flies had begun to gather on the walls. They darted across the room, sitting on the drapes, covering the floor.

“Who, Eomma? Who’s looking for you?” she asked frantically, swatting away the insects.

“You cannot speak to me, Ha-Yoon. You cannot speak to me. Dead must remain dead! Still your tongue, now!”

Two more candles went out and the handset began to vibrate in Marion’s hand. Her mother was screeching now, her words repeating in an endless, torturous jumble.

“Dead must remain dead! Still your tongue! Let me go! Dead must remain dead! Still your tongue! Let me go!”

Marion collapsed to her knees, hysterical sobs wracking her body as she clung to the phone like a lifeline. She looked up, and screamed.

Her mother stood in the corner of the room, surrounded by a haze of flies. She was naked, and twisted. Green, corroded manacles bound her wrists, and her feet were swollen and bloody. Her eyes were missing.

The fifth candle extinguished.

Marion watched the dead shape of her mother take a single, halting step forward, and her screaming began anew, rising from the very core of her being. Her legs felt like jelly and her body refused to move. It made its way closer, and closer. The room was thick with flies now, and Marion could feel them crawling into her nose and ears.

Fear paralysed her, and she closed her eyes. Praying. Wishing. Hoping it was all a dream. But it wasn’t. Cold hands grabbed her face and forced her eyes open. She found herself staring into her mother’s face.

But it was no longer hideous. Just sad.

“Foolish girl,” her mother croaked, and the lights in the room turned a sickly green. “They can see you now.”

Then Marion blinked, and everything went back to normal. She was kneeling on the carpeted floor, tears streaming down her face. And all the candles were out.

She dropped the phone, got to her feet, and ran. She ran out of the dingy back room, past the shopkeeper who called after her in concern. She ran down the street, ignoring her own parked car, trusting only her legs to carry her far away from her brush with death. She ran, and ran, and ran, trying to shut out the sound of flies buzzing in her ears.

Epilogue

Derrick Grange sat in the interrogation room and eyed the two individuals standing before him. The taller of the pair was a man with ebony skin, dressed in a crisp grey suit with a black tie, and matching shoes. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses.

The second was a woman with red hair, cut short in a bob. She too was dressed in grey, wearing a fitted blazer and pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Her piercing green eyes studied him with a clinical expression.

“Mr. Grange,” the man began. He had a deep, smooth voice. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”

Derrick sniffed and squinted at the man. The overhead lighting was harsh and made his eyes water. “You had the cops drag me from my store and haul my ass over here. Doesn’t seem like I had much of a choice.”

“You didn’t,” the man responded. “My name is Mr. Rook, and this is my partner, Miss Finch. We have some questions for you, Mr. Grange.”

“Am I in trouble or something?” Derrick asked suspiciously.

“That depends on how you answer, Mr. Grange,” Rook said matter-of-factly. He sat down slowly, placing a brown file on the table. “Cooperate, and you could walk out of here with nothing more than a slap on the wrist.”

“And what if I don’t?”

Rook smiled. “You don’t even know what I’m about to ask you. I’d advise against being so hasty.”

Derrick crossed his arms. “Fine,” he said meekly, looking down. There was something about Rook that unnerved him.

“Wonderful,” Rook clapped. Derrick noticed his hands were gloved. “Mr. Grange, we understand that you are currently in possession of a rotary telephone, manufactured by Brighton-Shaw Telecommunications in 1945, coloured veridian green. Is this accurate?”

Derrick scratched his chin. “Yeah, sure. That thing’s been passed down through the family. It’s an heirloom. What about it?”

“Mr. Grange. We, meaning my partner and I, have reason to believe that that telephone could potentially have… hazardous effects on anyone that uses it. As such, we’d very much appreciate it if you could pass it into our custody. For your own wellbeing, of course.”

“Why do you want my grandma’s old rotary? There’s nothing special about it. It’s a piece of junk.”

“Except for the fact that it can be used to communicate with the dead,” the woman said. Finch, her name was. She spoke softly, but her voice carried across the small room. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Derrick froze. “I…don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rook’s smile never left his face. He just opened the file and slid a small collection of photos across the table. “Oh, but you do, Mr. Grange.” He began tapping a gloved finger on each of the photographs. “Why don’t you take a closer look at these?”

Leaning over, Derrick caught a glimpse of the photos and had to fight to keep from throwing up all over himself.

“Holly Reyes. Jamie Little. Vera Samson. And Marion Song,” Rook said slowly. “Each of these individuals were your customer at some point in time, weren’t they, Mr. Grange?”

“I don’t fucking know any of these people!” Derrick exclaimed, sweeping the photographs away from him. The blood. The twisted flesh. The flies. He couldn’t look anymore. “And you can’t keep me here.”

He rose from the chair angrily, and Finch spoke a single word. “Sit.”

It cracked like a whip across the room, and Derrick suddenly found himself back in his chair. He looked at her, bewildered, and opened his mouth to scream.

“Don’t talk,” she murmured again. “Just listen.”

Impossibly, Derrick found that no matter how much effort he put into trying to open his mouth, his jaw and tongue simply refused to work. He tried to scream again, but that only served to force strings of saliva to trickle out of the corners of his lips.

“Now, now,” Rook smiled wider. “Let’s not do that. We have traffic camera footage of Miss Song leaving your establishment six days ago. With enough digging, I’m sure we’ll find evidence of the rest too. There’s no going back now.”

Eyes wide, Derrick forced himself to stop screaming. His heart was jackhammering against his chest, and his entire body was moist with cold sweat.

“That’s better,” Rook sighed. He seemed to relax, leaning back in the chair. “My questions will be simple, Mr. Grange. For fear of you screaming again, I shall not ask my colleague to lift her restraint until I see fit. Nod for ‘yes’ and shake your head for ‘no’. Do we understand each other?”

Derrick nodded.

“Excellent. Now, you mentioned that the phone belonged to your grandmother. Is this a fact?”

Nod.

“Over the course of your ownership of the phone, have any parties approached you with the intent of buying it?”

Shake.

“Were you aware that the phone was capable of causing such a degree of harm?”

A pause. Then a shake.

Rook tilted his head. “Now that you do, are you more inclined to transfer ownership of the phone to us?”

Derrick sighed, as much as he could through his restricted speech. Then he nodded.

“That was the right answer,” Rook murmured, and for a moment, his tone lost its cheerfulness. “We’re almost done here, Mr. Grange. I only have one final question. Ms. Finch, if you would?”

Derrick didn’t know what happened next. He felt something shift, his ears popped, and suddenly he could talk again.

“What…what’s the question?” he managed to stammer.

Rook leaned forward and took off his sunglasses. Derrick frowned. There was something odd about his eyes. Something…wrong.

“How much of this incident would you like to forget?”