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Authors: Nicholas Guild
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down the phone, Phil,” the voice said. For a second or two he wasn’t sure where it had come from. He actually began to look around the room. “Put it down , Phil.”
He put it down. His heart was beating painfully in his chest, and he was frightened. Strange voices over the phone lines—sure. Except that this voice was oddly, terrifyingly familiar. He was sure he had never heard it before in his life, but that didn’t make any difference. He knew it.
The phone man was having him on. That was it. His truck was probably parked a quarter of a mile down the road, and he had tapped into the main line. Waiting, knowing nobody leaves a new phone alone. The story about the man and his wife and the voices had all been set-up.
The guy was probably laughing his ass off, right that minute.
He would complain to the company—right now. He would fix the son-of-a-bitch. He would get him fired.
He opened the phone book do find the number. He picked up the receiver again.
“Go look in your mailbox, Phil.”
This time he dropped the receiver, so that it bounced against the kitchen counter, and he had to use both hands to put it back on its cradle.
“Oh shit,” he whispered, his hands trembling as they held the receiver down, as if by main force. Who the fuck did he think he was kidding. That wasn’t the installer’s voice.
The voice went with the dark shape out on the dance floor, with the footsteps over his head at night, with the missing packs of cigarettes. When he heard it again, he would know who he was talking to.
“Oh goddam fucking Jesus.”
“Go look in your mailbox, Phil.”
The property was bounded along Old River Road by a stone fence—never in his life had Phil seen so many miles and miles of piled-up stone as he had since coming to Greenley; he pitied the poor bastards, dead these three hundred years and more, who had first had to clear this land for farming—and on top of the fence, right next to the driveway entrance, was the oversize mailbox, its white paint almost all flaked off, looking like a tin Quonset hut in the snow. In a week he had never even opened it. Why should he? Who would be sending him mail?
Well, maybe he should have, because inside there was a little pile of circulars and a manila envelope claiming to be full of valuable coupons from the Welcome Wagon people. There was also a postcard.
Phil held the postcard in both hands, as if afraid of losing it, and just let everything else slip to the ground. Still clutching the postcard, he walked back to the house, stumbling like a blindman.
The front of the card was a black-and-white photograph of a girl sitting with her elbows against her knees on an expanse of beach. She was smiling ecstatically and wore big sunglasses and a striped bathing suit that went about halfway down her thighs. Her hair in the back was caught in a net bag, the sort of thing he believed used to be called a “snood”.
Above the girl, printed in big red letters, was the message: WELCOME TO GREENLEY. It was the standard sort of postcard that people bought on vacations to send home to their friends.
Except that it was obviously about fifty years old.
He turned it over. The back was divided by a black line running down the middle into two blank squares. The stamp in the upper right corner was a rosy pink and valued at two cents. It displayed a picture of James A. McNeill Whistler. There was no address. In the left square, printed in a hand that looked like it belonged to a psychotic child, were the words, “And welcom to the Moonlight Roadhouse.” Nothing else, just that.
He sat at the kitchen table and laid the postcard down flat. He tried to focus his mind on the details—the missing “e” in “welcom,” the fact that the stamp had come loose and was curling up at the bottom left corner, the way the girl’s toes seemed to cluster together, as if from a lifetime of wearing narrow,
He put it down. His heart was beating painfully in his chest, and he was frightened. Strange voices over the phone lines—sure. Except that this voice was oddly, terrifyingly familiar. He was sure he had never heard it before in his life, but that didn’t make any difference. He knew it.
The phone man was having him on. That was it. His truck was probably parked a quarter of a mile down the road, and he had tapped into the main line. Waiting, knowing nobody leaves a new phone alone. The story about the man and his wife and the voices had all been set-up.
The guy was probably laughing his ass off, right that minute.
He would complain to the company—right now. He would fix the son-of-a-bitch. He would get him fired.
He opened the phone book do find the number. He picked up the receiver again.
“Go look in your mailbox, Phil.”
This time he dropped the receiver, so that it bounced against the kitchen counter, and he had to use both hands to put it back on its cradle.
“Oh shit,” he whispered, his hands trembling as they held the receiver down, as if by main force. Who the fuck did he think he was kidding. That wasn’t the installer’s voice.
The voice went with the dark shape out on the dance floor, with the footsteps over his head at night, with the missing packs of cigarettes. When he heard it again, he would know who he was talking to.
“Oh goddam fucking Jesus.”
“Go look in your mailbox, Phil.”
The property was bounded along Old River Road by a stone fence—never in his life had Phil seen so many miles and miles of piled-up stone as he had since coming to Greenley; he pitied the poor bastards, dead these three hundred years and more, who had first had to clear this land for farming—and on top of the fence, right next to the driveway entrance, was the oversize mailbox, its white paint almost all flaked off, looking like a tin Quonset hut in the snow. In a week he had never even opened it. Why should he? Who would be sending him mail?
Well, maybe he should have, because inside there was a little pile of circulars and a manila envelope claiming to be full of valuable coupons from the Welcome Wagon people. There was also a postcard.
Phil held the postcard in both hands, as if afraid of losing it, and just let everything else slip to the ground. Still clutching the postcard, he walked back to the house, stumbling like a blindman.
The front of the card was a black-and-white photograph of a girl sitting with her elbows against her knees on an expanse of beach. She was smiling ecstatically and wore big sunglasses and a striped bathing suit that went about halfway down her thighs. Her hair in the back was caught in a net bag, the sort of thing he believed used to be called a “snood”.
Above the girl, printed in big red letters, was the message: WELCOME TO GREENLEY. It was the standard sort of postcard that people bought on vacations to send home to their friends.
Except that it was obviously about fifty years old.
He turned it over. The back was divided by a black line running down the middle into two blank squares. The stamp in the upper right corner was a rosy pink and valued at two cents. It displayed a picture of James A. McNeill Whistler. There was no address. In the left square, printed in a hand that looked like it belonged to a psychotic child, were the words, “And welcom to the Moonlight Roadhouse.” Nothing else, just that.
He sat at the kitchen table and laid the postcard down flat. He tried to focus his mind on the details—the missing “e” in “welcom,” the fact that the stamp had come loose and was curling up at the bottom left corner, the way the girl’s toes seemed to cluster together, as if from a lifetime of wearing narrow,
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