A Call for a Confession

The first thought Phillip Emerson had upon waking in bed was one of uncertainty.

He was accustomed to beginning his day inside unfamiliar rooms, the quiet hum of the air conditioner his only companion. He was a businessman and with this vocation came travel—and with travel came an endless stream of hotel rooms. From Antwerp to Zanzibar, Phillip had delighted in some of finest lodgings this world had to offer. He was wealthy, of course, a fact that was not lost on the bellhops and chambermaids who waited on Phillip hand and foot. He enjoyed the power that money commanded and was quick to produce a healthy stack of currency when he wanted something done to his liking. So, to wake up inside a hotel room was not new to Phillip. But to wake up inside a hotel room and not know how he got there? That was new territory indeed.

Phillip shook the sleep from his head and tried his best to recall the flight or drive that had brought him to this room. He stepped out of the bed, which was much too small, and made the short walk to the bathroom. He flicked on the harsh white light above him and gazed into the mirror over the sink. His eyes were bloodshot, the dark bags below them more pronounced than usual.

“Well, that explains it,” he chuckled to himself. It was apparent that Phillip was in the throes of a particularly nasty hangover.

Alcohol was no stranger to the middle-aged man. A quick drink on the airplane before takeoff, cocktails at dinner with clients, a nightcap to celebrate a new deal or investment—booze was as common to Phillip as spreadsheets and shoeshines.

He washed his face with cold water and blew stale breath into his hand. With a quick sniff, he was unable to detect any traces of the night previous. He left the bathroom and for the first time that morning, took stock of his hotel room. To say the room was sparsely-furnished would be an understatement. Including the bed, there was only a small bedside table with a white phone on top. No dresser. No desk. No television. No window. Phillip loathed this trend of minimalism that so many of his favorite hotels had moved toward.

He headed toward the door, hoping to find the morning newspaper outside of his room. He would order breakfast and have a large cup of coffee. That would rouse him from his hangover and help him piece together where he was and what business he had here. He was mentally preparing his room service order as he reached out for the doorknob.

But there was no doorknob.

Phillip searched the smooth metal door, hoping to reveal some sort of hidden mechanism to free himself from the room. He was becoming quite irritated with this establishment and had half of mind to tell off whichever poor soul found themselves at the front desk that morning.

He stomped toward the end table and snatched the phone off its cradle. But when he held the phone next to his ear, he heard no dial tone. With annoyance festering inside him, he pressed a series of numbers on the keypad, but to no avail. “What hell is this?” Phillip growled to himself.

He returned to the door, his annoyance quickly replaced with righteous indignation. He began pounding the door with fists, creating as much noise as his soft hands could muster. When his hands grew weary, he used his feet, kicking the door with the tips of his expensive loafers. Phillip screamed at the top of his lungs, adrenaline flooding his body, but no amount of shouting or pounding created any difference. He was locked inside this room.

Breathlessly, Phillip walked to the bed and sat down on the hard mattress, his knuckles and feet aching from the violent outburst. He reminded himself to stay calm and think things through. He was a man who made a living finding solutions to difficult problems. He was an avid chess player and applied this same skillset to his life and business. He had become rich beyond his wildest dreams by outthinking others.

Suddenly, a shrill ringing noise filled the room and Phillip nearly leapt off the bed in surprise. The phone on the table next to him was ringing. Phillip’s spirits lifted. Finally, someone had realized their mistake. It was about damn time! This hotel would be hearing from his lawyers.

He snatched up the phone and put it to his ear. “I don’t know what kind of circus you’re running here, but I demand to speak with the owner.” Phillip was ready to delight in whatever lame explanation the staff was about to provide him. There was quiet breathing on the other end of the line.

“Hello, Mr. Emerson,” a calm voice purred.

“Who is this? Let me out of this room for God sakes!”

“Are you ready to confess, Mr. Emerson?”

Phillip felt a pang of fear run up his spine like a bolt of electricity. “Excuse me?” he said.

“Are you ready to confess?” the voice repeated.

“I don’t know what kind of game this is, but you will be sorry that—”

Click.

The line went quiet.

Phillip put the phone down and stared at the empty wall in front of him. He looked over at the door again, fresh with scuff marks. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Phillip had experienced his fair share of hangovers, but had never had such difficulty recalling the events that led to the hangover. Try as he might, he could not recollect a single useful clue to help him understand how he ended up inside this hotel room.

Unless it’s not a hotel room, he thought.

This idea was met with a fresh wave of nausea.

Phillip stared at the phone beside him as if it would reveal a secret. The voice on the phone had asked him if he was ready to confess, as if he were some sort of common criminal. This was outrageous! He had nothing to confess to.

But that’s not true, is it?

He pushed the thought from his mind.

Phillip was unsure how long he had sat on the bed, lost his own reverie, because the next thing he knew the phone was ringing once again. He picked it up immediately.

“Let’s try this again, Mr. Emerson. Are you ready to confess?”

“Is it money you want?” Phillip asked anxiously. “I have money! I’m sure we can agree on some sort of dollar amount.”

The voice sighed in disappointment and the line went dead.

Time passed inside the quiet room, but Phillip had no way of knowing just how much. There were no clocks at his disposal. His head was foggy, his thoughts difficult to organize. At one point, Phillip was certain he was dreaming, but the longer his ordeal lasted, the less likely this seemed. How long would be subjected to this twisted affair?

He returned to the bathroom and had a drink of water from the leaky faucet. He sat down on the cool tile and thought about the phone calls. Phillip imagined he was playing a game of chess. What moves were available to him? What move would his opponent make next? Phillip considered these questions as he dozed off on the bathroom floor. He was exhausted.

He awoke sometime later, his head still aching. He wondered how long it had been since his last meal. He could not say for sure. His memory was still so clouded.

Phillip was pacing around the room when the phone rang. He wasted no time getting to it and picked up on the second ring.

“Good evening, (was it evening?) Mr. Emerson!” the voice said cheerfully. “Are we ready to confess?”

Phillip thought carefully before answering. He was terrified the man would hang up again.

“Perhaps you could tell me what I am to confess to?” he asked.

“You are wasting time, Mr. Emerson. Shall we try again later?”

“No!” Phillip shouted. “I’ll confess. Just please don’t hang up.” Phillip wiped a line of sweat from his forehead. Was it getting warmer inside the room?

“I am waiting,” the voice said impatiently.

“I was a terrible husband to my wife. I was unfaithful to her. I mislead her. I didn’t love her.” It was true, of course. His marriage had fallen apart almost as quickly as it had started. Phillip was great at many things, but relationships weren’t on that list. As he spoke on the phone, he chided himself. This isn’t what they want and you know it.

Phillip waited for a response. It felt like an eternity. “We’ll try again later.”

The line went quiet.

“Damn you!” Phillip exploded. He slammed the phone down and ran to the locked door. He let loose a volley of obscenities, not knowing if anyone was on the other side to receive them. The voice had asked him to confess and he had done so! Why was he still locked up like an animal?

You know why. How badly do you want out?

Phillip laid down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He began counting the tiles above him to pass the time. But it was no use. His mind felt like it had been shoved inside a blender. It was impossible to concentrate. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. He could feel his heart resume a normal rhythm.

The phone rang.

Phillip stared at it as its sound echoed around the room. He knew what would be asked of him as soon as he answered. He picked up.

“Good morning, Mr. Emerson. I trust you slept well.” Had Phillip slept? He thought he had only closed his eyes for a few minutes.

“What day is it?” Phillip asked weakly.

“Why, it’s confession day, of course!” said the voice brightly.

“But, I did confess,” Phillip moaned.

“Perhaps you need more time to think about it,” the voice taunted.

Phillip was exhausted mentally and physically. His nervous system was stuck in fight or flight mode, but he was incapable of doing either. He wanted out of this room. Damn it all.

“I take advantage of people!” he yelled suddenly. “I gain their trust and I betray them all in the name of money. I manipulate people and I don’t feel any guilt about it. I look down on people less fortunate than myself. I consider these people beneath me—less than human. I am a bad person! Are you happy?”

“No, Mr. Emerson. I am not happy. We’ll try again later.”

Phillip’s heart sunk like a stone in water. The phone line went dead.

“You’re a monster!” Phillip cried out to the empty room. He was suddenly very ill and just managed to make it to the bathroom before he vomited. He was dizzy and unstable on his feet. There was a strong odor trapped inside his nostrils. He wondered if he was smelling his own unwashed body.

Phillip sat upright next to the toilet and speculated about what sort of man would imprison him inside a room and then demand his confession. He could not piece it together—could not see the chess board in his mind. He wondered if he would leave this room alive.

There was nothing for him to do except wait for the cursed telephone to ring again so that he may have another chance to please his tormentor.

Give them what they want, he thought to himself. Tell them what they want to hear and this will all be over.

After an interminable period of silence, the telephone finally rang. Phillip grabbed it and held it to his ear. He could hear the familiar breathing on the other end.

“Good morning, Mr. Emerson. Can you believe it’s Saturday already? We’ve spent so much time together.”

The voice was toying with him. It knew Phillip had no way of knowing how much time had passed. Phillip felt like he was losing his grip on reality.

“Will you ever let me go?” he asked quietly. “Do you intend to kill me?” If death was coming, then Phillip hoped it would be soon. He couldn’t stay in this room a minute longer.

“Give me your confession and I’ll let you go. It’s that simple.”

Phillip held the phone between his head and shoulder and looked down at this hands. His father used to tell him that you could tell a lot from a man by his hands. He said that if the hands were wrinkled and coarse, then that was evidence of a man who had worked for everything he had.

Phillip’s hands were smooth and unblemished.

“I’m a thief,” he said.

The voice on the other end said nothing, but Phillip knew he had its attention. He continued.

“Everything I’ve ever accomplished is a lie. For years and years, I kept waiting for someone to catch on—to get caught—but it never happened. And you know why? Because I’m good at it! I’m smarter than everyone else. If you steal from someone and they can’t stop you, that’s their problem! You take what you can in this world and you keep taking until someone stops you. Thats life.”

Phillip let out a deep sigh. “I’m tired of this game. You win. Do what you want with me.”

Phillip threw the phone down onto the floor and sat atop the bed. It was over. It would end with death or prison, but he didn’t care. He was leaving this room. Sometimes in chess, the best move is to admit defeat.

Suddenly, a loud clicking noise came from the corner of the room. Phillip followed the sound back to the locked door, only it wasn’t locked anymore. The door was now open.

Phillip lifted himself with tired legs and walked toward it. There was little light beyond the threshold. He walked through the door and found himself inside a long dark hallway. As Phillip’s eyes adjusted to dimness, he could hear a man speaking from the end of the hall.

“The truth shall sat you free,” said the mirthful voice. It was him, of course. Phillip would never forget that voice for as long as he lived.

Phillip walked slowly, cautiously, toward the man and saw that he was sitting at a small desk. The man appeared to be Phillip’s age, perhaps a little younger, and was wearing an expensive suit. To Phillip, he looked no different than a thousand others he had encountered inside the boardrooms and offices he frequently found himself in. Phillip noticed a soft light coming from behind the man. The man moved out of the way to reveal two small television monitors. Phillip did not need to stare long at the screens to know that they displayed footage from inside the locked room.

“I take no pride in this,” said the mystery man, following Phillip’s gaze.

“What is this?” Phillip asked. He felt faint. He wasn’t sure he could remain upright much longer.

“This is blackmail, Mr. Emerson.”

The man took a small piece of paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to Phillip. “At some point in the next year, the person listed on that paper will make an offer to buy your company. When that happens, you are to make sure the sale goes through. If you do, then your confessions will never see the light of day.”

Phillip was hearing the words, but couldn’t process them quickly enough. “You want my company?”

“Not me. The man I work for.”

“I can’t just sell it,” Phillip protested. “There is a Board of Directors. There are shareholders. It’s not that simple.”

“Lie. Cheat. Steal. Do what you do best.” The man gathered a briefcase from under the desk and began walking toward a door at the end of the hallway.

Phillip watched the man leave, his polished black shoes tapping rhythmically on the hard floor. “So that’s it then?” he yelled at the man. “All of this just to steal from me?”

The man stopped walking and looked back at Phillip. “Yes, that’s it, Mr. Emerson. You keep taking until someone stops you.” With that, he turned and left the building.

Sometimes in chess, the best move is to admit defeat. Phillip Emerson had lost this game.

But there was always another game waiting.