Ten digits. One phone number. My phone number.
Thomas, Ani, and Eve elevate their solo cups to the darkened fall sky. A symbol of adoration. A sign of my departure.
"Don't get caught this time!" Ani giggles cheerily from whatever evil concoction sits in her cup.
Landon burps in agreement. Fits of laughter erupt, shaking the twilight.
"Don't be so loud this time," I urge. "I don't need my parents waking me up to tell me your parents found you three passed out in your chairs instead of in bed."
They don't acknowledge my sentiment. Too distracted by the burp. Hazed by their drinks.
My boots crunch blades of grass under their weight as I trail away, out of the woods.
My breath, a cloud of condensation, hardly seen through the midnight, is also a clear reminder that I shouldn't be out.
Twelve o'clock is a time our body earns its rest, recharges, and re-calibrates for the next day to come. Or that's what was part of my lecture the last time I was caught. That, and an unmistakably clear warning that if I were to repeat my maneuver, I wouldn't be seeing any stars for the foreseeable future.
Joke's on them—I didn't repeat it. I tweaked it; instead of leading them to believe I was heading over to a friend's, like last time, I didn't tell them at all.
I hug my oversized fleece tighter to preserve whatever warmth I have left. Two more steps, and I'm standing at the foot of my driveway.
No lights. No movement. No sounds coming from inside to declare awake bodies.
An exhalation is my green light.
I race to the side of my single-story house, leaves protest as my feet stomp them.
A pine shrubbery knives at my back as I shove my way to my room's window. It's slightly lifted—exactly how I left it. Under my right hand, it raises even higher. Both hands grip to the sill, pushing me up, yanking me into a fold. Tepid air thaws off the cold on my cheeks. The rest of my body draws in with a squirm.
Palms rush to the carpet to break the fall.
Pause.
Ears listen for a stir. Eyes watch the bottom of my door for a light.
With nothing but silence and cries of wind from the crispy outdoors, I'm to my feet, fingers shutting the sash. Legs launch me on top of my bed.
My eyelids curtain over, drowsiness setting in.
A buzz vibrates my stomach, signaling a call.
I slide my phone out of my fleece pocket, squinting at the too-bright light.
414-900-4539
Ten digits. One phone number. My number.
It's the identical twin to one I've authored for years.
I take too long to pick up—a prevention of too many questions swirling. The number along with the only illumination in my room disappear.
I stare at my phone, about to toss it besides me.
A buzz shock starts my heart.
414-900-4539
My fingers swipe right, knowing it's likely a scam.
"Hello, Miss Deonn!" An announcer's voice resonates through my ear. "You have just won the lottery!"
* * *
"Oh!?" I feign surprise and amazement. "How did I get so lucky!"
"Luck has nothing to do with it at all!" His voice is too chipper. Too upbeat. Off. "It's merely your turn!"
"Right."
"I hope you know there is no joke in my words."
"Of course not." A smirk stretches my face. "How should I receive the money? Should I give you my credit card number? Bank code? Might as well give over my address or ID?"
"Those won't be necessary, Miss Deonn!"
"What, then?"
"A game."
I'm still. Confused.
"The Game will do."
"That's okay." I take my phone away from my ear.
"Entering other contestants!" Blares from the speaker even with the distance.
"Hello?" A new voice, female this time. No older than I am. A lighter tone.
"What the hell." Male. Same age. "What's going on?" His deep voice is sharp and clearly upset.
"Mr. Burbridge is eager!" exclaims the voice of the guy who thinks he's a game show host. A stream of laughs simultaneously cue like a laugh track.
I press my screen, trying to see whoever had spoofed my number has merged the call with. Three numbers without saved contacts sit in the call. All the same area code.
I tap speaker mode, thumbing the volume down just loud enough for me.
"How did you get my number?" The final person speaks, another boy. Raspy. A little nasally from sickness.
None of these voices are familiar. Not any I can pin to anyone at school.
"Contestants! Are! You! Ready!" The Host chimes.
"Screw this." The nasally guy grumbles.
"Ah-bup-bup. Leaving this call will ensure your elimination, Mr. Thornton!"
"I think I can live with that."
Two numbers left.
No one speaks. Not even The Host.
A minute passes before Thorton joins back.
An ear deafening scream. Terrified. Guttural. "Stop! Please!" He begs. A slashing sound makes my entire body fill with goosebumps. Something is being pierced, like a knife trimming meat. Another yell. A gurgle.
The line goes quiet. Blank. The same number withdraws yet again.
"Contestants! Are! You! Ready!"
"What just happened?" I whisper.
"Mr. Thornton was eliminated!" The Host trivially reports.
"Was he—" The girl can't even finish.
"Freaking murdered?" Burbridge throws out with a snorted laugh. Joking.
"Yes!" The Host answers simply. "Lives are on the line! Don't let it be yours!"
He means that figuratively, right?
My stomach falls out. Acid burns in my throat. Index finger hovers over the end call.
"Leaving this call will ensure your elimination, Miss Deonn!"
I freeze. Try to swallow. Can't.
"Contestants! Are! You! Ready!"
"For what?!" I try to keep my voice composed, but the end comes out with too much emotion.
"The Game!" The Host begins. "You are now in a race against time! Riddles will be issued out individually, ten to be exact! For each one you answer incorrectly, an elimination will occur. If you get three wrong—"
"You! Are! Eliminated!" Other voices chatter.
What kind of sick joke is this...
"Yeah, no thanks." Burbridge is fed up.
Don't. I want to say. I hold my breath instead.
His number abandons the call.
Apprehensive fingers pull through my curls.
Burbridge's number adds back to the call.
"What the fu—"
A thump. Some kind of altercation. More banging. A scream from a woman. Multiple stabs administer through the phone. Shouts. Grunts. Expletives. A gagging. A tear from a blade. Burbridge's number vanishes.
"There is a prize to be won!" The Host excites, startling me back from the audible scene. "Miss Linden, your first question! I was crowned in a land across the sea. A reign so long, it's hard to believe. My name's on a era, it's quite hard to miss. Who am I, this monarch of bliss?"
"I—I, um, can you repeat that?" Her cadence is so soft. A bunny's fur.
"Ten seconds, Miss Linden!"
"But—"
"Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three!"
"I—don't—I don't know..."
"One! Times up, Miss Linden!"
A small whimper.
She's scared and so am I.
"Dad?" Linden uneasily inhales. There must be noises going on that I can't hear.
"Miss Deonn!"
My ears snap in at my name.
"Your first question! I flew across the sea, alone and brave. My spirit soared, and history was made. Who am I, with wings of fame. Who crossed the Atlantic, leaving my name?"
"These are history riddles..." I'm bad at history. "Can't you give me something else?"
"Time's a tocking!"
"Uh—ah, Amelia Earhart?"
"Wrong!" The Host laughs.
Shuffling from inside my house.
I'm not thinking, but my legs are moving. My back shoving up against my bedroom door.
My window is still unlocked.
I'm flooded with panic.
A shout bellows down the hall. My Mom screams. My Dad wakes up from the commotion only to echo her with his reaction.
"Who the h—"
I can hear movement, violent movement. As if someone's trying to escape. Angry footsteps. Someone hits a wall.
"Elli!" One of my parents scream.
I cover my mouth to stop a response.
Silence.
My hands shakes. Legs buckle. Are they—
"Miss Linden, back to you!" I forgot I was still holding my phone. "I crossed a Rubicon, defied the state. A Roman hero who sealed his fate. Ides of March was when I fell—Say my name, and history will tell."
She doesn't reply right away. Either she's dealing with whatever is ensuing in her house, or she doesn't know. I can't pick which is worse.
"You have eight seconds, Miss Linden!"
"Julius Caesar?" Her voice barely carries.
"Correct!" Hundreds of hands clap on The Host's end. "Second question, Miss Deonn! Six wives I took, none free from dread. Two divorced, and two were dead. Church I changed to have my way. An English king in Tudor's day!"
Six wives. Divorced. Dead. Clearly a womanizer. Henry, but which one?
"Henry the Eighth."
"Correct!" More clapping. "Miss Linden! Not born to fight, yet led the way. In armor clad, by night and day.
A maiden guided by a flame. Burned, but history praised my name."
Joan of Arc.
"Is it...Joanne..no..Joan?"
"Of?"
"Somewhere in Europe?"
"Is that your final answer?"
"Yes..."
My eyes fall shut.
"You are incorrect!" Aw's ricochet. "One more and you're eliminated!"
Something makes Linden shriek. "Who's th—"
"Miss Deonn! I stared at stars, then walked on one. The world watched when the feat was done. 'One small step'—I made it clear. For humankind, I conquered fear."
"Neil Armstrong."
"Correct!" Claps explode.
"Miss Linden, over to you! I split a code with mind and speed. To stop a war was my one need. Machines I built, the Axis feared—but history kept my name unclear."
"You gave me a hard one," Linden sniffs.
"Ten seconds!"
"Wait—I need some time to think!"
The Host is a bulldozer. "Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two!"
"Wait! Please wait! Let me think!" Linden cries. I can hear the actual tears in her voice. The quiver decays my heart.
"Out of time!"
"You! Are! Eliminated!" The cacophony of unknown people proclaim.
Linden's sob rings through my room, as if she were present.
A burst of a door. She shrieks. "NO! PLEASE!" A slam. Choking. Consecutive stabs.
Linden's number isn't in the call anymore.
"Our last player! Miss Deonn! I stormed a place with stone and gate. Where prisoners stayed to meet their fate. My fall began a people's call, to bring down kings and end it all."
"What! How am I supposed to know that!" I raise my voice. Frustration and concern run my body.
"Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One!"
"I didn't know this one!"
"Yikes! Better answer right next time!"
I rip open my door. It's only my second incorrect but I don't have anymore immediate family for whoever to go after.
This a prank. It has to be. A really sick prank.
I sprint toward my parent's room. The door is wide open. Their bodies—
Oh god.
Their bodies.
They were in my house. This isn't a game.
My Dad's neck is bent irregularly to the right. Blood seeping through his shirt. Stab marks on his arms.
My mom is on her chest. Back wounds bleed an aggressive crimson through her blue pajamas. Her face is compressed to the floor into a horrid expression. Her legs going the opposite way.
Both their mouths and eyes are wide open.
They don't move. Make noise. Show any sign of life.
This can't be real. Can't be real. Can't be real.
I should've ran in here as soon as I heard fighting. Why didn't I run in here.
A whine slips pass my lips. I want to crumple to floor. Rip my hair out and shout so loud the whole world splits in two.
But I know they're coming. For who, I don't know.
"Miss Deonn! Your time is running out!"
He must've asked another question. How am I supposed to say something when I don't even know what was asked. What can I say to at least prolong it?
"I want to request a freeze."
Gasps transfer from the phone.
"Request for a freeze! There's a first for the night! You have a fifteen seconds, Miss Deonn!"
I'm a blur in my pitch black house.
I fly out the door, down the street, back to the woods. Sharp branches lean over me symbolically, like they know what's coming next.
"Ani!" My voice rips into the night. "Thomas! Eve!" I'm advancing towards our bonfire. I can see the dim of the fire, the light glowing on their faces.
They're still here.
"You have seven seconds, Miss Deon!"
I move closer.
Oh. "No..."
Blood splatter coats Ani's face, a mask of red. She's not moving. Thomas isn't blinking. Eve's not breathing.
Linear serial slices on their necks. Their shirts stained with the DNA and memory of what happened.
It's my fault. Because I couldn't answer a stupid question.
I hold my phone closer to my mouth. I want to yell, curse at him, threaten to call the police, but I can't leave the call. Either way, it's like whoever—whatever is doing this, won't stop. Not until the game is done. "You said something about a prize? What am I winning?" The waiver of my words is prominent.
"The prize is your life."
"That's—that's not a real prize!"
"Your freeze is up, Miss Deonn! What is your final answer?"
"Go to hell."
"Ooh, not even close!" Boo's mock me.
My fingers release my phone.
Eyes close.
Breathing halts.
I know what's coming for me.
Don't feel it until I'm on the ground.
No one won the prize.
* * *
I shift on my couch, arms tired from propping me up. My eyes trace over each post I scroll from.
A random vibration from my phone. Seconds after, my screen locks to a vivid green.
Nails tap and swipe, trying to fix it. Nothing has an effect.
Probably a glitch.
A caller ID pops up. My own number.
Weird.
"Hello, Miss Monroe!" The man on the other end is jolly, like a radio host "You have just won the lottery!"
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