Spell

the silence answered

The phone seemed to pulsate. Felt like it, anyway. In his hand, faintly alive. As if something on the other end was breathing into it without making a sound. He held it to his ear long after the call had dropped. Listening to nothing, listening to everything. Straining to hear anything. The silence had texture now.

He lowered the phone and stared at the screen. Call Ended. Again. He thumbed over, not even needing to look. He pressed the same tab he’d pressed probably over fifty times in the last twenty-four hours. The ring tone started. Too cheerful, too optimistic. Too clean. Like it belonged to someone who had their life together. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four. “C’mon, man,” he muttered to himself. “Pick up. Just pick up.” Voicemail.

He didn’t hang up this time. He let it play, listening to the robotic voice. Once again it invited him to leave a message after the tone. As if this was a new experience. As if they hadn’t been through this dance all damn day. Beep. “Hey… it’s me. Again!” He rubbed his right eye with his palm. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but you missed the jam last night. You said you’d be there at seven, man. We waited ‘til nine. I waited even longer than that.” He swallowed. “Just call me back, alright? I don’t care what time it is. Just, call me.”

He hung up before his voice cracked. His living room still smelled like stale cigarette smoke. He’d quit smoking three months ago. Funny how that worked. The smell never really left. It’d soaked into the walls. His drum kit sat quietly in the corner. He’d tapped out a few nervous rhythms earlier in the day, but even that felt wrong. Every beat echoed too loud. Like knocking on a coffin.

He checked the time. 2:14 p.m. Twenty-six hours since he’d last gotten a text. Thirty-eight since he’d last seen him. He’d called around, no one had seen or heard from his friend. It was if he’d vanished into thin air. He’d had half a thought of calling the Police to see about having a wellness check done at his apartment.

Figuring that would be overreacting he decided to go over there and try knocking on his door again. He stood up too fast, the room tilted slightly. He steadied himself and grabbed his jean jacket. The phone went into his pocket like a talisman. Or a weapon. He wasn’t sure which. He began making his way over to his friend’s building.

The hallway outside his friend’s apartment smelled like burnt chicken jalfrezi. The lighting was bad enough to make everything look slightly unreal. Like a cheap horror film. He raised the drumstick he’d brought with him in his inside jacket pocket. He held it across the palm of his hand and rapped it hard against the door as if he were high fiving it. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

Louder than knuckles. Sharper. Impossible to ignore. “Hey!” he called. “It’s me! Open up!” Nothing. He knocked again, harder and faster this time. Like he could force a response out of the wood. Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! “C’mon, man!” Silence. For a moment, just a moment, he thought he heard something. A shuffle. A breath. Something maybe human? Then it was gone. He stepped back. His heart was pounding harder than it should have been for something so simple. “You’re in there,” he whispered. “I know you are.” No one answered the door. Silence.

Then a neighbour’s door creaked open the next door down the hall. A frail looking woman, thin as a coat hanger. Eyes too sharp for someone her age, peered out. “You again?” She asked, not unkindly, but not kindly either. “Yeah.” He said, through a forced smile that didn’t stick. “Sorry. Just checking.”

“Haven’t seen him,” she said before he could ask. “Not for a few days. No noise, neither. Not even the television.” He nodded and said, “yeah.” She studied him for a moment, her gaze lingering on the drumstick still in his hand. She asked if him if he knew any of his family he could call. He answered her quickly while shaking his head. “No. No, he’s, he’s probably just out. You know, he gets like this sometimes.”

She didn’t respond, but her silence said enough. “Thanks,” he added, backing away. Her door closed and the deadbolt locked with a stern click. It sounded louder than it should have. He turned back to the apartment door. “Last chance,” he said quietly, as if the door could hear him better now. “Just open up.” Nothing. The silence pressed in again, thick and suffocating. He knocked one more time. Softer now. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a question he didn’t want answered.

Outside of the building, the air felt wrong. Too still. He pulled out his phone and called again. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Fourth ring. Voicemail. He didn’t even wait for the beep this time. “Okay, listen,” he said, pacing the sidewalk. “This isn’t funny anymore. I’ve been calling you for over a day. I’ve been to your place three times. Nobody’s seen you. Nobody’s heard from you.” His voice tightened.

“If this is what I think it is? If you went back to that stuff.” He stopped walking. A memory hit him, sharp and sudden. His friend’s hands shaking, trying to hold a coffee cup steady. The clinic. The sullen promise, I’m done with that life. I mean it this time. “Don’t do this,” he said into the phone. “Not again.” Beep. He stared at the screen, his reflection warped in the glass. He barely recognized himself. “The silence is so loud,” he muttered.

And it was. It filled his ears, his head, his chest. It screamed at him without making a sound. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and started walking. He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. He ended up at the park without meaning to. The same bench where they used to sit after jam sessions, passing a bottle back and forth. Talking about nothing and everything all at the same time. The same exact spot where his friend had once sworn. Sworn! That he’d never go back to that life.

I’ve got it under control now, he’d said. The methadone is working, I’m good. “You’d better be,” he’d said to his friend. “I’m not doing this again with you.” They’d laughed. It’d felt true at the time. He sat down. The bench creaked under his weight, familiar and uncomfortable. Here he was, doing it again he thought. He wondered if his friend was back under their spell. If the drugs had their grip on him again. He pulled out his phone and called again. When the voicemail message came on he hung up and closed his eyes.

The sun dipped lower, dragging the day down with it. Hours passed in fragments. Another call. Another walk to the apartment. Another unanswered knocking session. Another call. Time didn’t move properly anymore. It lurched and stalled, like a bad engine. By nightfall, the world felt thinner.

He stood outside his friend’s building again, staring up at the dark windows. No lights. No movement. “Alright,” he said to himself. “One more time.” He climbed the stairs slowly. Each step heavier than the last. The hallway looked even dimmer, even more grim and longer if that was even possible. The door waited. He raised the drumstick. Crack. The sound echoed down the hall. Crack. Crack.

“Open up!” he shouted. “I know you’re in there!” Silence. He leaned his forehead against the door, the wood felt cool against his skin. “I’m not leaving this time,” he said quietly. “You hear me? I’m not going anywhere.” For a moment, just a moment, he thought he felt something on the other side. A vibration. A presence. Like someone standing inches away, listening. “Hello?” he whispered. Nothing.

Then? A sound. Soft. Almost nothing. A faint scrape, like something shifting on the floor. He jerked back, heart hammering. “Hey!” he said, louder now. “I heard that! Open the door!” No response. But he knew he’d heard something. He banged the drumstick on the door again. Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! “Don’t fuck with me! I know you’re there!” The hallway seemed to shrink around him for a moment, the air growing thick. Another sound. This time from behind him.

He turned to look. The hallway was empty. He could’ve sworn the lights flickered. Slowly, he turned back to the door. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He froze. For a second, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then he pulled it out with a shaking hand. An incoming call. From him.

His thumb hovered, then slid over the screen and answered. The moment felt heavier than it should have. “Hello?” he said, his voice barely there. Silence. But not the same silence. This one, breathed. A faint static filled his ear. Like distant wind or someone exhaling very slowly.

“Hello?” he tried again. A pause. Then. A sound. Not quite a word. Not quite a breath. Something in between, inaudibly so. His grip tightened on the phone. “Where are you?” he asked. The static shifted. For a moment, it almost sounded like laughter. Or crying. Or both. “Say something,” he whispered. The line crackled. A voice tried to form. Or maybe it didn’t. He couldn’t tell. Then? The call dropped.

He stared at the screen. Call Ended. His reflection stared back. Behind him, the hallway was empty. In front of him, the door remained closed. He raised his hand to knock again. Then he hesitated. Because now he wasn’t sure which side of the door he was supposed to be afraid of. And somewhere, deep in the silence. Something waited. Or nothing did. He stood there, phone in one hand, drumstick in the other. Listening. The silence answered.