sehun: the phone call

Tremulous fingers, bones shrieking through every touches as Sehun unlocks the door, four in the afternoon, sun bloodying out the bleaches and shields of unkempt fields. Loneliness drenches across Los Angeles at such a late night in such an isolated neighborhood, residence of four in the other mansions. Two died. Unknown explanations, late occurrences of seeing figures at nighttime. Some sort of murderer on the loose, perhaps.

Once he bolts his way through, Sehun immediately turns around and shuts the door, such velocity once it plangs against the frame. He looks around. No one’s home, and no one will be until late at night. Late in the midnight when they get off their shifts. He’s all alone for the day, and frankly, he hates these sort of days.

Wood creaks, screams everytime he takes a long step across, tiptoeing in a way to not disturb how peaceful he is. But it isn’t. Light shade breaches through the windows, less scenic and he doesn’t even dare moving over to the windows because he swears at nighttime, there’s always someone on the other side. Black silhouette, staring straight at him with those white, white, white eyes that are so indescribable. Brooding shoulders, and then it just disappears whenever Sehun turns around and looks back. He doesn’t question, nor babble about it any longer because it’s just a hallucination. A ing hallucination, that’s all it is. Right?

Almost stands there for a minute, he does, because he doesn’t know what to do. Does he go do his homework? Does he wander up to his bedroom, get comfortable and maybe just watch some television until his parents come home? Or what? Sehun contemplates, looks around to make sure there aren’t any lingering creatures, something so horrifying in its own way without having to be known. But it’s ironic, really, because the unknown itself is just plain terrifying--

Something rings. The telephone, he immediately notices. It’s shaking, the dialers with the numbers just echoing. Peeking over, he does, takes a dollop against the silence and the wood creaks. He almost jumps back, but he manages to catch himself because why is he getting so worked up over wood. Mahogany, with shades of reds all over it. Bloodied, perhaps, dead body dragged across but he doesn’t know that.

“H-hello?” he asks, receiver clenched close to the eardrums, but there’s not much to hear when the line dies down, goes silent, red all over the metaphony. “Hello?” he calls, again, and then the dial goes dead. Dead as in there’s no more line. It’s just empty, no sounds at all, creaks of wood creaking again and the plasters of bodies from underneath just lying there.

“What the hell,” Sehun mutters to himself, and then he slams down the receiver, like there’s some justifying reason why he should feel angry.

But then it rings again, almost right when fractions are extracted from the missing times. When he slams it down. It just rings. And his mouth’s open, sort of, aghast and eyes darting from across the rooms now. Victorian furniture, all crimson and the tables in the dining table of a mahogany that looks possessed in how the leather’s just curling out, looking like it’ll grab at him--he’s getting all worked up over leather now.

He picks up.

“Hello?” he calls, and it sounds more gathered together rather than last time. But then, it just goes empty! Something plummeting goes silent, dropped from the skyscrapers and just splatters onto the sidewalk. “Hello?!”

Dead the line goes, deceased and cut from the caller.

Appalled eyes, heart beginning to race because someone’s calling him and then just hanging up. No words, no numbers, no nothing. Just nothing, and that’s the horror of it all. Nothing. N o t h i n g. He slams down the receiver, and just begins to walk away. Sehun decides on just going up to his room, maybe calling Joonmyun to talk over their psychology lesson--but, then it just rings again. Third time, no charm because the dial suddenly sounds like shrieks, and the souls that cling towards the phone.

Sehun turns, and sees the phone just ring. He doesn’t bother going to answer it, because it’ll probably just be that one person again, who’s most likely prank-calling him. The Kim brothers on 19th Street always have a nag on bullying Sehun, but Joonmyun just tells him to ignore it. So he’ll just do that. But something keeps him back, limbs outstretched and tendons on the verges of splitting in half, breaking bones and lonely bones, all. He watches the receiver heave once someone calls it, three times in rings before it just stops, lies dead, misery impacted.

He lets out a sigh of relief--

It rings, again.

And he just watches it, breaths decomposing into something less humid and more moist, because there’s a feeling of someone from right behind him. He turns almost immediately, met with nothing but just a force of air. Brash winds, bloody silence. The phone goes dead, again.

Sehun feels himself burning up, anger surging through and arising from the hells of his low impatience. Heels cracks, he leans backwards and spine aches. Aches--

It rings again, the phone.

He doesn’t hesitate, he moves and within his moves, are something that’s lost of gentility. Oboes in the background, minor chord and he freezes. Freezes right before the object that’s pissing him and then he picks it up, furiosity infused and he yells.

“Who the is this?! And what do you want?!”

Silence, and he swears if it goes dead again, he’ll call the cops--

“Don’t look out your windows.”

And the phone line goes dead, something of Sehun’s mind lost upon it, pondering and wondering on what. Heart scampers now, and cadences allowed. Percussions finally on their timpanis, flat on the concert notes and hollow on the inside. Chimes, chimes, chimes, and he freezes. It feels like someone’s behind him again, but he doesn’t want to turn.

Muscles all frigid now, something uneasy in the house because now Sehun knows for a fact, that someone's messing with him. Phone rings, of course, and it sounds almost too pleasant because the silence has grown attached to it.

“W-who is this?! Tell me, or else I’ll call the cops on you--”

Voice tickling underneath his spines, creeping up his thighs and ending along where his lips part, where his mouth divides and diverts upon horror. It’s whispery, and it’s nothing more than a few decibels but it’s just so damn frightening because who would be doing this to him. It’s like they know he’s home alone.

“Don’t go upstairs.”

And the phone line goes dead again, the routine methodical in its own ways. Dials all too transparent, apparitions in the house by now. He’s let them in, he’s let them in, he’s let them in. The fan feels like it’s on now, cool air swirling around the room, wisps from how the dusts just spiraling everywhere. But when he looks up, the fan’s not moving. It’s just static--

Sixth time, he notices. Ring echoing through the narrow hallways, too uneasily and up through the stairs where he’s warned to not go. Windows shrilling in their own ways, glass smudged upon something so putrid and morbid. Sehun kills himself to pick it up. So he does, but he doesn’t bring it up to his ear. He just slams it back down, and just pushes the phone off the coffee table, buttons screaming once they reach contact with the hard floor.

He pulls out his mobile phone, unlocks it quickly and slides almost too immediately to the phone application. Dials, dials, presses the number he wants too. Just three digits. He needs to tell someone. And ring, ring, ring.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emer--”

It cuts off. Abruptly, abrasion, and something just at how his brows quease up because his heart’s gone now, filled with white. The moment’s white, the house’s black, himself is red. He dials again, thinks that maybe it’s just a signal breakout because that’s been happening as of recently too.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emer--”

Cut again. Always at that same spot, between the separations of the consonants, voice too thin and frailing out from how his phone just statics. He profanes, curses almost, and just dials again, buttons no longer nimble against his phone. Almost slips, but he catches the phone and just raises it up to his ear, trembling with every quiver because it’s suddenly gone so cold in this lonely, oh so lonely manor.

But the call doesn’t even go through and the voice answer picks up. Like the police has a voice mail, if that is. Breathings sound like ghosts shrieking, and it’s all mainstream so he just drops his phone. It goes off, phone screen probably cracks but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care for anything at this point. He just wants it all to be over--

Seventh time, the home phone is ringing and he just turns, turns so slowly and so achingly, bones hollow with marrow and eyes looking like plain sockets, missing of life. Throat clenches up, suddenly dark outside, feels like there’s more than one stranger in the house now. Apart from himself, that is and Sehun swears that he saw someone dodge across the backyard windows, where he was warned to not look.

He bends over, fleece rubbing against the cold, cold coffee table, blood-stained mahogany on his jeans. And then he picks up, natural tension of friction as he’s prepared to throw the receiver if there’s some sort of preposterous response. But maybe there isn’t, and maybe there is because something catches his attention from upstairs, a shadowy figure yielding across, dragging down from the lights and the shadows of his innocent house. And then the knives in the kitchen sound like they’re clanking against one another, laughs and jokes from all but Sehun, himself.

Breaths first, throat hopes to unclench and he finally talks, silences. “H-h-hello? W-who’s there?”

Silence.

And more silence, the time becoming unsparing and his body nothing but just of a terrified soul now.

“Don’t look behind you,” and then it goes dead. Dead for the final time, because the silences are just deafening.

Sehun looks across the windows, adjacent from the phone view and sees nothing.

Phone line hangs, isn’t put back onto the holder but it just hangs, cords wrapped around his fingers and just taking away the blood, drawing something so white and formidable.

He can’t do anything now.

Noxious looks, anxiety rising and his mentality’s on the brink now. He turns towards the stairways, across from his right peripheral and he sees nothing. Nothing. No shadows, no nothing. Just darkness because the house has gotten so dark, lately.

Heart beats.

Emptiness lingering.

Apparitions so clear.

And then.

And just then.

He turns around.

And he screams.

And the phone line’s still ringing, only to never be answered.

California, wind blowing and just thrifting and their hairs, thin fragments, thin pieces, thin strands just flying through the wind. The weather feels cold, suddenly. And it feels like there’s someone behind them now. So don’t look out your windows. And don’t look upstairs when you’re home alone. And do not, do not, do not ever pick up the phone call whenever it says Unknown.

“So, who wants to go next?” Sehun asks, eyes in sockets and sockets in skull. Skull that’s pounding at something so misered, something so empty.

“I will,” a voice says, and the attention turns towards it. Fire crackles, and crackles, and crackles. Repetition enhancing how silence it is because there’s shades of red in there now.

“Perfect. Go ahead, Jongin.”

And the stories gone wrong, continues.

i'm seriously so horrible at writing horror but i mean lol

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