Silas

The phone rang in the middle of the night.

Again.

At first, I thought it was a mistake. A muffled voice, snickers in the background, then someone hanging up. The second time was worse: insults mumbled between bursts of laughter, the kind of pathetic childishness you think is reserved for bored teenagers.

On the third try, I understood.

A bunch of drunk guys, probably crammed into a filthy living room, a half-empty bottle on the table, drunk enough to think they're funny.

I let it go. I took the fourth, then the fifth. With each call, the same nervous breathing, the hyena-like cackling, the cowardly silence just before they hung up.

So I searched.

Finding a phone number these days is almost insultingly easy. A few clicks, a little patience, and I had an address. A house lost on a charmless street. Close enough that the idea crossed my mind.

The sixth call came in about ten minutes later.

I hung up immediately.

This time, there was no laughter. Just short, hesitant breaths. As if the one calling had isolated himself from the others.

I leaned towards the handset.

And I spoke in a calm voice. Too calm.

— Listen to me carefully, you little prick.

A dry silence followed. I heard his breathing catch.

— I found your address. If you want to survive tonight, you're going to hang up, put down that phone, and stop your idiot friends from calling again.

On the other side, nothing.

So I smiled.

— Because if it rings again… I’ll come and teach you myself what a really bad idea is.