by Gary McMahon

I started telephoning strangers in the middle of the night a year after my wife died; just dialling random numbers, or those culled from the Yellow Pages, and speaking to whoever answered until they tired of me and hung up.

 It started as a way of killing time when I couldn’t sleep, using up the night and attempting to connect. With other people. With anything. The first was a woman:

 “Hello?”

 “Hi, this is Ben.”

 “Ben? Ben who? I don’t know any Bens. You sure you’ve got the right number?”

 “Just Ben, whose wife died.”

 “Oh. I’m really sorry, Ben, but I’m sure I don’t know you. Maybe you should ring The Samaritans; they’re trained at this kind of thing. I have to go”

 “Thank you for your time, miss. You’ve been a great help.”

 And that was it. No threats, no heavy breathing, no dirty talk. All I was after was interaction.

 I kept the frequency of my nocturnal calls down to once a week, not wanting to ruin the novelty, dilute the effect. Afterwards, I always felt relaxed and able to sleep for a few hours. The dreams I had were…different. Like other people’s dreams, rather than those waking nightmares I would experience on the bus home from work or standing at the supermarket checkout, caused by lack of sleep.

 So I punched in yet another random number late one night, way past 4am. It seemed that the woman who answered was an insomniac, too. Our first conversation went something like this:

 “Hello?”

 “Hi, it’s me. Ben.”

 “Hello, Ben. I’ve been waiting for you.”

 “You have?”

 “Yes. And for a very long time.”

 “You know me, then?”

 “Yes, I believe so. Your wife died eighteen months ago, you can’t sleep at night, and you hallucinate during the day. You’re falling apart at the seams, Ben. Ben? Ben…”

 “Yeah, I’m still here. This is…spooky. How come you know all this stuff about me?”

 “I told you, Ben.”

 “Did you?”

 “Yes. I’ve been waiting for you.”

 “So you said.”

 “Yes, I did.”

 “Where are you? I mean, where do you live?”

 “Oh, I can’t go giving out that kind of information, Ben. Not to just anyone.”

 “But you said you knew me; that you’d been waiting for me, so surely…”

 “Surely.

I can’t tell you, Ben. Not yet. You’re not ready.”

 “At least tell me your name. This is getting scary. I need to know your name.”

 “Ok, then. Lets just call me Pandora.”

 “Like with the box?”

 “Yes, Ben, like with the box. We all have our own boxes, Ben. Some us of even live in them, trapped and screaming for air. Do you know what I mean? Are you following my logic?”

 “I…I think so. I’m not sure; you’ll have to elaborate.”

 “Another time, Ben. I have to go. We’ll speak soon.”

 And then the line went dead, that high-pitched dial tone scouring my ears and sending me spinning towards yet another one of my headaches. I placed the receiver back in its cradle, but kept my hand against the warm plastic. I didn’t know whether or not to be afraid. I still don’t.

 The next time was even stranger. Midnight, and as usual I was unable to close my eyes without seeing the screaming face of my wife as the car hit her. Mouth open, no sound coming from between her lips: a forever silent scream in my head. I took the ‘phone from the windowsill, placed it on the floor and sat cross-legged before it. Picked up the receiver, and put it to my ear.

 “Is that you, Ben?”

 “Hello? Yes, it’s me. Ben. Who’s this?”

 “Pandora.”

 “How? I didn’t even call a number, and my ‘phone didn’t ring.”

 “I rang you, Ben, and you must have picked up just before the ringing started. Happens to me all the time.”

 “How do you know my number? I didn’t give it out. I changed it after…after. Anyway, nobody knows this number, and I’m ex-directory.”

 “I know all the numbers, Ben. Every one. The names, too.”

 “What do you want?”

 “Same as you.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “A connection. Someone to reach out to and share my inner life with. Somebody to talk to, Ben. Somebody like you. A person to share my box with.”

 “You’re frightening me. This is too weird.”

 “About as weird as a lonely man ringing up strangers in the dead of night, Ben? As weird as that?”

 “Ok. I didn’t mean any harm. Nobody was offended. I just talk ‘till they hang up, that’s all.”

 “Just like I’m doing with you, Ben. If you hang up, my voice is gone.”

 “Just like that?”

 “Yes. That’s all you need to do.”

 So I did just that: I hung up. And when I heard her voice behind me, at the window, I didn’t turn around. I just sat there, pretending that it was the sound of the rain hammering on the glass or someone down in the street shouting for a lost dog.

 Then it got worse.

 The next evening, as I was returning from the local corner shop with bread and milk and chocolate bars, every public telephone that I passed began to ring. Broken glass starred the pavement beside most of them, and I could see the handsets virtually shaking off their hooks through the jagged holes in the booths. When I got home, I locked myself away and waited until just before dark. Then I grabbed the ‘phone and rang your number.

 You could’ve been anyone. I just plucked a sequence of numbers from my head. But I’m glad you’re awake. If you talk to me, it’ll keep her away. Pandora. Keep her locked in her box. If you hang up, I’ll hear her voice on the line. This time, she might tell me more than I want to hear. This time, she might even appear, peering over my shoulder as I speak to her.

 So, please…please, just stay on the line. Keep talking, and keep me safe. Make it so she can’t come out. I don’t want to have to get in her box.

“Hello, Ben. I’ve been waiting for you.”