Bad moon rising part three

I sat at the kitchen table eating a light lunch, a ham and egg sandwich with a cup of Earl Grey tea, no milk, no sugar.

As I ate I was eyeing the mail which had just arrived with a clatter. It lay on the formica topped table next to my now empty sandwich plate. At a glance I could see it was just the usual stuff, a couple of bills mixed in with some junk mail trying to sell me a sofa, a stairlift for the elderly and the local supermarket special offers for today.

The first letter I opened was the monthly telephone bill. I wasn’t really expecting any surprises here, it was usually more or less the same amount, about fifty pounds or so. What was different was that British Telecom had been forced by the government to offer extra service features like itemised billing.

The first page of the bill with the total figure due shocked me. It was three hundred pounds. I flipped through the following ten pages trying to see how they could justify such a scandalous amount. At the very last page all was revealed. There was one number out of all that I simply did not recognise. What’s more, the number was only ever called when I was out of the house, a Friday night when I popped out to see a male friend for a beer, a Saturday afternoon when I went to see the local football team play a match. It piqued my interest somewhat to say the least.

What I did next I was later to deeply regret and rejoice in equal measure. I picked up the handset to the telephone not realising that I was opening Pandora’s box and letting leash a monstrous behemoth that did not belong in any civilised society.

The phone at the other end rang briefly before being cut off. I rang it again and it rang out just twice before being cut yet again. I put the handset back in its place. In many ways, I later thought, I should have just left it there. But curiosity got the better of the cat and I picked the phone up one more time. Within two seconds I really wish I hadn’t.

“ Hello, who is that ? “ I asked as politely as I could.

A deep male voice growled back at me.

“ Who are you to call me and demand to know who I am ? “ the scary voice barked. “ I don’t know who you are, what do you want ? “

I was rocked back a little on my heels by the power of the voice. There was just something about it. It did not sound completely human, and as I was later to discover to my cost and profound pain, it was not human at all. It was what I could only describe as animalistic. I tried to imagine how the person the voice belonged to looked and could only come up with Goya’s giant Colossus. Later on I realised that that image was far wide of the mark. In reality, the person the voice belonged to was a lot more akin to Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son.

Trying to maintain my composure and civility I politely told the voice who I was and simply explained why I was calling his number. “ I was just a little intrigued to know how I have a telephone bill of three hundred pounds mostly with calls to this number. “ I explained.

The voice let out a raucous, malevolent laugh and growled

“ Why don’t you ask your wife ? You’re pathetic, aha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha….” The horrible mean laugh from the bowels of a devil was still booming from the handset as I gently put it back in its place.

I fell back in my chair rattled to the depths of my very being.

What the….. I mentally exclaimed to myself. Oh my god, no, it’s impossible.

Obviously the thought that immediately entered my head was that my wife was having a secret affair. But that was impossible. She went out to work every day at the same time and returned at the same time. She never went out at night nor at the weekend. Even when I was out she was at home with the children. She was a devoted mother and wife. Surely this was all a sick joke. As I was later to discover, sick it was, a joke it wasn’t. And this was just the start, the start of a vicious, evil campaign of terror that was only just the beginning.


Photograph by courtesy of Jo Brazil

Author, writer, Illumination Editor, Top Writer in short stories and poetry.

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