“The Telemarketer” by Caleigh Sheehan

Caleigh Sheehan

A shrill ring pierced the thick silence of the empty Sunday morning. Jon, a man of 23, particularly lackluster and average in every way, sprinted to the phone with a newborn enthusiasm for life. Something that his high school sweetheart Angelica had never seen before. Though this was the first Sunday morning she had spent living with him in his spacious apartment, she found this behavior odd. Was he always this excited about phone calls on Sunday mornings? Was this a ritual? Or was this some sort of special call that had nothing to do with its occurrence on a Sunday morning? Before she could glance at the tiny orange screen of the phone to identify who was on the other line, Jon snagged the phone from its resting place and pressed it to his ear.

“Is it gone?” The words that Jon spoke were simple and terrifying, sending tremors through Angelica’s body. “Well, I can bury it myself if I need to, but I’m going to need a bit of extra money.”

“Bury what?” Angelica whispered aloud. She caught herself and realized she should probably leave the room for reasons of…safety.

“I prefered not to have any blood on my hands,” Jon added solemnly. He began to pace back and forth, tapping his left hand against his thigh.

“Blood?!” Angelica could be heard screaming from the other room. It should be noted that Jon is not a quiet speaker.

“What’s done is done, there is nothing I can do. Bury it and move on.” A moment of silence. “No, don’t burn it, it produces a putrid smell anyone could recognize.”

Angelica was now frantic and hurriedly walked in circles from room to room, desperately trying to escape the voice, once calm and loving, now turned a haunting fragment that reverberated off the walls and stabbed her like icicles.

“Just get rid of it. I don’t care how you do it anymore. The problem is yours not mine, and if you don’t handle this I’m going to make your entire existence regrettable.” Jon slammed the phone angrily onto the receiver and released a giant pent up gust of breath.

“Jon, what was that all about?” Angelica reappeared in the room; her face was a sheet of paper, a ghostly void of color.

“Oh nothing dear, just a telemarketer.”