by David Allen
The rain had finally stopped, yet the skies remained thick with angry gray
clouds. It had poured all day long and Thomas Calston was relieved to see
it stop, even if it resolved to pick right back up within ten minutes.
He hated the rain more than anything. In all his life, Thomas had never
been able to look at the rain without becoming incredibly upset. In fact,
he could blame all three of his divorces and the recent loss of his job
on the rain. As far as Thomas was concerned, the rain was his deepest enemy,
always seeking him out and attempting to destroy his life. Of course, he
had never breathed a word of this to anyone. People would think him to
be a complete lunatic if he began blaming the rain for all of his troubles.
There was only one problem. Lately, his anger had begun to turn to rage.
The rain was deepening the cut, making him more and more dangerous with
each drop. Thomas was thankful for the current lack of a job. God
only knows what would happen if he had to be around people during days
like these. He sat quietly in his easy chair, starring blankly at his bruised
knuckles. The microwave had given him trouble earlier, he had slammed his
fist into it without thinking twice.
Now that the rain had stopped, Thomas felt much better. He almost felt
like turning on the television and watching one of the many pointless shows.
Or perhaps when the newspaper finally arrived, he could do a little job
hunting. The bills were already beginning to stack up, Thomas would have
to find a job very soon.
His drifting thoughts were interrupted by the sudden ringing of the telephone.
Thomas rose to his feet and strode into the kitchen. He picked up the phone
and said hello.
"Good afternoon Thomas," came a voice. "I see it’s been raining." There
was a short burst of laughter, followed by an ominous click.
"What?" Thomas almost shouted. It was too late, they were long gone. Thomas
frowned and hung up the phone. The anger that had begun to fade with the
rain was beginning to boil again. He picked up the phone again and began
to dial star sixty-nine. Nothing happened. Thomas narrowed his eyes, the
phone was dead.
And then it rang again.
"Who is this?" Thomas barked into the receiver.
"Poor, poor Thomas," replied the voice. "The phone lines are down, and
yet you stand there like a complete mad man yelling into the phone. What’s
wrong with you?" There was more laughter. Then silence.
Thomas opened his mouth to shout a clever string of curses into the phone,
but he was cut off by a sudden boom of thunder. The rain began to pour
down again. There was more laughter through the phone, "Uh oh, Tommy.
Looks like the rain’s starting again. Maybe this time you should wear boxing
gloves… They don’t make microwaves like they used to, so be careful." There
was a series of incredibly annoying giggles followed by a click.
Rage. Nothing less.
With a sickening crunch, Thomas smashed the phone into the wall. It shattered,
spraying little shards of plastic across the kitchen floor. Shouting curses
with the greatest of ease, Thomas stomped on the remnants of the phone
until his heel began to hurt. This pushed his anger even further, he began
shouting at the little shards of plastic for trying to bruise his foot
and then at his foot for being too weak. When the tantrum had passed, he
stormed out of the kitchen and into his
bedroom.
It was raining even harder now.
Thomas sat down on his bed and took a deep breath. His grip on sanity was
slipping, and he knew it. Thomas turned on the radio, it always did a nice
job at blocking out the sound of the rain. He closed his eyes, expecting
to hear the soft strumming of a guitar or perhaps even a piano. But there
was no music. Instead there came a rather familiar voice, "Golly gee Tom,
you sure taught that phone a lesson." There was a burst of laughter.
Thomas sat bolt upright.
"Are you going to smash this poor little radio too?" Once again, there
was the sound of laughter. "Well Tom, this song’s just for you…" The sound
of rain drifted through the speakers. Thomas lunged for the radio, screaming
at the top of his lungs.
The doorbell rang.
Thomas froze, his mind swirling in the uncharted waters of madness. He
glanced in the direction of the front door and then back at the radio.
He had no idea what to do. He realized that he was afraid of what might
be standing on his doorstep. On a night like tonight, it could be the devil
himself. Thomas decided that he would be ready for anything. He went to
the closet and pulled out his magnum, it was loaded as always.
The doorbell rang again.
Griping the weapon tightly in his right hand, Thomas made his way to the
front door. He reached out and pulled it open. There stood the devil, a
grin spread across his dark visage.
Thomas squeezed the trigger twice,
sending the beast sprawling out onto the lawn. The corpse twitched
and then became still. The rain poured down upon the bullet riddled
carcass. That was when Thomas realized that it was not the devil after
all.
The paper boy lay dead on his front lawn.
The End Copyright 1998 David Allen
David Allen can be emailed at:
thedrifted@aol.com
