Silence in the Phone Box
I was off for my night bus when I heard a thud. The only thing around was the old phone box at the back of the station.
I approached it, the door hanging off its hinges near the bottom. There was nothing in the phone box: certainly no person. I checked the black phone in its cracked cradle, the peeling faded poster of emergency numbers, all outdated. There was no movement inside the phone box aside from mine.
Still the door suddenly groaned. As I spun around, it slammed shut.
I rested my hand against it: pushing, shoving. Soon I was leaning into it, not caring if my shoulder shattered the glass. My watch scratched it. Except I couldn’t hear that. No clatter. No scrape.
I had this awful feeling so I opened my mouth. When I spoke, nothing came out. My lips were moving but I couldn’t hear a thing.
Soon enough I was screaming or at least trying to. It was dark outside and it had just started to rain. Everyone who passed me must have already ducked inside the station.
I kept on trying to scream, attempting to thump the glass. I couldn’t hear anything so I didn’t think anyone outside could either.
At last I balled up my fists, raised them, lifted them back. I bashed the glass. The whole phone box quivered around me but would not yield. I pushed my forehead against the door and gave in.
Suddenly, the phone rang. Just once. I turned, grabbed it, pressing the receiver against my ear.
“Now you know,” a thin nasal voice crackled through the droning dial tone.
I dropped the phone. It clattered against the back wall. I definitely heard that but still I knocked the glass myself to check. Sound had returned.
I glanced back to the door just in time to see and hear it groan open. First chance I got, I jumped out towards the bus station.
I only looked back once when the phone box door slammed shut again. The echo followed me inside.
I can still hear it.