Telephone call from the afterlife

Author's Note: This story was written from a prompt from "Invalid Item" , an awesome group, if I say so myself. This was the prompt: "The telephone's demanding ring went unanswered."

This is the story:



The phone rang. Great, I thought. Just great. Of all things, I get a phone call now? Figures. I left it to ring, as other things were rather higher on my list of priorities at the moment. Such as, say, my physical health. Or lack thereof.

After all, it is difficult to answer the phone when one is dead. Dead, you say? Why would I be dead in the middle of the afternoon, the most inconvenient time of all? Well, to tell the truth, it was something of an accident. I really didn't plan this out. In fact, I had been looking forward to finally completing the rough draft of the book I am—well, was—writing and sending it off to my agent. I guess someone had other plans.

Stupid bloody telephone. It isn't easy to think with that damn thing ringing on and on and on in the background. Why couldn’t the fool just hang up and leave me in peace? To rest in peace. RIP. Oh haha, hilarious aren't I? About as funny as a rubber crutch. Soaked in sulphuric acid.

I have always thought it would be interesting to be dead. Not permanently, mind, but only for a short while. You know, to get the creative juices flowing and all. I bet it would have really have spiced up the bit with the zombies in my book. A glance at the other side, at what it's like to see everything corporeal around you, unable to touch, to feel. Simply floating, seeing, hearing, smelling. Hearing. Hearing that damn phone ringing in the background. I swear, if I had arms, I would strangle the idiot.

You know what that ring reminded me of just then? My ex-wife. Demanding, that's what it was. What they were. Wonder if she was behind this whole bloody mess. And I do mean bloody; you should see the carpet here. But back on topic, that ring was demanding, seeming to be yelling at me, crying for me to pick it up. Like a baby, crying for its bottle.

Well tough luck, kiddie, 'cause your bottle ain't living no more. Your demanding little ring is just gonna go unanswered.

Although, really, if I could, I would have answered it by now. I do hate the sound of the telephone.

Fifteen rings. Finally. Answering machine should kick in right about now. There it goes, ah blessed silence.

"Hi there! Freshly dead? Unable to move from your locale of demise? Want to get on with death? Just pick up the phone and dial 1-800-4-TAKE-ME. Your afterlife guaranteed or your body back! Limited offer only, void where prohibited. Credit card required for use of services."

Click.

Pick up the damn phone, eh? Just dial the number, eh? What do you think I am, super-fucking-ghost? I was working myself into quite a nice rage when the machine clicked again. I guess I should have expected what happened next. A carefully-calculated evil cackle came through the speaker, followed by the cheery words, "Welcome to Hell. Enjoy your stay, freedom is just eleven digits away!"

I hate it here.