The Crossing

That was years behind him now, though. He flashed back to the present, his hand next to the phone. It began to ring again, a longer one this time. He pulled at the receiver, and the noise fell quiet. He put it to his ear, and the familiar hum came to him, although not reassuring his wracked nerves. Then he heard a click, and a woman's monotone voice could be heard, intoning:

"Help me... Suzie's dying... help me... Suzie's dying..."

He dropped the receiver, it bounced on the carpet and swung from it cord. He ran to the door. He shook the handle, but it wouldn't budge. He could still hear the distressed mumbling from where the phone hung. He ran to the bedroom door. Locked too? The only other door was to the balcony. He ran out. He was ten floors up. No escape. Still that interminable voice... There was a knock at the door. The knocker didn't wait for an answer. "Hello?!" a voice called. "Anyone home?! It's the police." The man slammed the balcony door. If they got him he'd never get away. He looked out over the balcony, his hands on the rails. He looked back at the dangling phone, still swinging. His front door handle was shaking. The police had heard him close the door! Without a thought he pulled himself softly over the railings...

The two policeman walked in.

"Hello?" he called again. "Just checking to see you're all OK..." He craned his head into the kitchen area. "Funny," he said. "Could have sworn..." His colleague picked up the phone to his ear, a strange expression on his face. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing," came the reply. He offered the receiver to the first man, who put it to his ear, to hear a voice repeating monotonously:

"Please hold... user is dialling... Please hold... user is dialling..."

"Crossed line," said the policeman, and replaced the handset.