Stalker
By,
Jennifer E. Miller
Rochelle leaned
against the counter of Good Food Fast during her shift. She glanced out the
window and saw large flakes falling. No
one is driving around in this weather, she thought. It’s going to be slow
night.
Her cell phone
dinged in her back pocket, indicating a text message. She shouldn’t answer her
phone at work, but it was from her best friend, Marcy. Plus, she was bored. Sliding
the phone out, she opened the message. It simply stated, This just happened. Rochelle answered back with a ? A few moments later, she received a
response with a photo. She nearly dropped her phone in surprised shock. A bloody
sink. There was something in the bottom. She pinched the screen to zoom in and
her heart dropped. Teeth. Frantic, she called Marcy, but all she got was voice
mail.
“Marcy? Marcy?
Are you alright? What’s going on there? Please call asap.”
How long should
she wait? Five minutes? That seemed so long.
Her phone dinged
again.
Don’t try to call. I’m coming now.
What do you mean? Here? To the restaurant? she
typed.
There was no
response.
I’m really worried about you.
Marcy has already left. I’m coming now.
Rochelle’s heart
thumped in her chest. She felt her blood pulsating everywhere throughout her
body. This wasn’t her friend. And if it wasn’t, who had her phone?
Looking around
the restaurant she checked for any patrons. There was no one. She only heard the
hum of the walk-in refrigerators. Should she lock the doors? They were supposed
to stay open late for business. But this was a matter of safety. She wished her
manager, Patrick, would hurry back. He liked to leave on break when it was
slow. Except he took breaks all the time, frequently leaving her alone.
Rochelle wished she had the tenacity put her foot down and said that made her
uncomfortable. And it was against policy.
With her hands
shanking, she dialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1 what is
your emergency?”
“Hi, Rochelle
Stevens. I got some weird text messages from my friend’s phone. I think she’s
in danger. She—well, maybe someone else who has her phone—also sent me a photo
of a bloody sink.”
“What’s the
address?”
“1213 S. Grove
Street,” Rochelle answered.
She heard the
operator typing.
“There’s no such
address. Please say it again, maybe I misheard you.”
“1213 S. Grove
Street. I’ve been there hundreds of times.”
“There’s no
address on our street grid. Is this a prank? We don’t have time for those—“
“NO! Please send
someone. And please send someone here, too. Whoever has Marcy’s phone said they
are coming after me, too.” Rochelle started to panic once she realized the
circumstances. Speaking them out loud validated them. It scared her blood cold,
now.
“Where are you,
Rochelle?”
“I work at Good
Food Fast on Cherry Street. That’s where I’m at.”
There was a
pause.
“Hello? Ma’am?
Did I lose you?” She briefly held her phone away to check the connection. No
dropped call. “Can you send someone please?”
“There is no
such food establishment. We don’t even have a Cherry Street in this city.”
Rochelle was
confused. How is it 9-1-1 doesn’t know these addresses?
“This is Lincoln
Heights 9-1-1 center, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should
know my locations and where my friend’s house address!” Rochelle practically
screamed.
“Calm down. Is
there a landline available? If you call using that it will send the address
directly to me. But don’t hang up your cell phone.”
“Ok. Yes, there
is one here.”
Rochelle walked
to the corner of the store near the refrigerator and picked up the beige telephone
covered in greasy fried filth. Its long cord dangled from the phone down to the
floor. She picked up the receiver with her free and pushed three numbers. It
rang and rang.
“Why aren’t you
picking up?” Rochelle asked the dispatcher.
“The phone isn’t
ringing.”
“I’ll try
again.” Rochelle hung up. Sometimes the landline acted up. It was old and it
frequently got knocked off the wall. She placed the receiver back, picked it
up, and dialed again.
“It’s ringing
now. Once twice—“ she gasped.
“Rochelle?
What’s wrong?”
“The phone went
dead.” She whimpered.
“Rochelle, are
you there by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Lock the
doors.”
Rochelle ran to
the front of the restaurant. She grabbed the key from the lanyard secured to
her belt loop, shoved it into the lock, and turned it. The keys jingled as she
fumbled with them.
The dispatcher heard
it and continued, “Good. Did you get the back door?”
Rochelle ran to
the back where the employee entrance was. She locked that door as well.
“I’m glad you
got that taken care of, Rochelle. I’m worried about your friend. Tell me more
about her teeth.”
“She sent me—“
Rochelle
abruptly stopped. She didn’t tell the dispatcher about the teeth, just the
blood in the sink.
“Rochelle?
Rochelle?”
Rochelle
reflected on her situation. Her mind was blank and running wild at the same
time. Someone was out there stalking people. Was that same person corrupting
cell phones? Was that even possible to do? She flashed back to Marcy. The
bloody sink. The threatening text from whoever that was.
“Hello,
Rochelle. I’m still here.” The dispatcher’s voice spoke softly in her ear.
“Can you help
me?” Rochelle whispered.
“I don’t know.”
Her words were flat and stern. They were no longer friendly.
She yanked the
phone down from her ear and pressed the end button. At least that worked.
Thinking
quickly, she looked at the alarm system mounted on the wall next to the
employee entrance. She pressed a series of numbers and the unit flashed a red
light indicating it was now armed.
Next, she made
her way up front to the tills. The motion sensor was aimed in front of the
counter, in case someone tried to rob the establishment. She slid over the counter
and onto the other side. Simultaneously, she jumped and criss-crossed her arms overhead
to activate it. A searing alarm went off.
Rochelle breathed
a sigh of relief. The alarm company would get the message and dispatch the
police. She imagined the safety of the red and blue lights and how she would
tell the officers to race to Marcy’s house.
The alarm
suddenly ceased. Buttons were being pushed at the alarm panel. Rochelle hear a
familiar cough.
Patrick. He
probably sucked down a half pack of Marlboros while he was gone. At least it
was a familiar face. She climbed back over the counter and towards the employee
entrance where Patrick was changing out of his snow boots and back into work
tennis shoes. His back was turned toward her as he stooped to change footwear. His
large winter coat swallowed up the slim shape of his body. As Rochelle
approached him, she noticed he didn’t reek of the usual cigarette smoke.
“Patrick?” she
inquired.
With his back
still toward her, he held up his hand as if saying, “Hold on.”
Rochelle didn’t
wait. “Patrick, I got frightening and threatening messages while you were away.
I had to call 9-1-1, but something weird was going on. They didn’t have addresses
in their system. We’ve got to get out of here. I’m worried about a friend, plus
our own safety.”
Patrick didn’t
say anything. He just shook his head.
An uneasy
feeling engulfed Rochelle. Something seemed off. This whole evening seemed off.
“What did you do
while you were gone?”
“Zey toog my
teez, too.”
He coughed
again, this time into a paper towel he pulled from his pocket.
“What?” Rochelle
didn’t quite understand what he had said.
Slowly, he
turned around. The paper towel was stain red. She took a step backward and
looked up at Patrick’s face. His lips looked like they were painted with
ketchup, but she knew what it was. Curling his top lip, he showed her most of
his front teeth were missing.
Rochelle
swallowed hard. Patrick collapsed onto the floor.
The next thing
she heard was the knob turning. The door clicked open about six inches, blowing
in large snowflakes. A hand reached in. It was grasping a bloodied wrench.
Copyright 2016, by Jennifer E. Miller
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