Get Out If You Can

Alison | I'm Cutting The Call

Won't lie, it's funny that I actually have Diego Torrez's number on my phone after five or so years of not keeping in touch. Well, I hope it's his number, anyway. He might've changed it.

"Mom, you're sure it was Torrez?" I yell. I don't really expect her to reply. She's rendered herself incapable of conversation for the past week or so, and I could say I don't blame her — but come on, it was coming at her head-on. I told her not to — oh, shit, wait, did I even tell her anything? Nah, I don't think I did. Wouldn't want her knowing that though.

She doesn't reply, so I cease trying to get her to participate in a conversation with me. It won't help. To be honest, I'm glad Dad's gone. I hate him. If there were stronger words, I'd use them. He's got too much of his bullshit power and he uses it to the worst possible extent. I could even have a case filed on him if he didn't —

My phone's ringing. Not very unusual. After that batshit crazy message some random kid sprayed on a blank wall of our house earlier today, ringing is the only thing my phone's been doing. I've blocked people I never knew existed — and not only kids. Adults too. Guess we can't ever keep our hands off something as flighty as gossip, can we?

I glance at the name on the screen, my finger almost ready to decline whoever it is.

Oh, but no. I tap on the green button and hold the phone to my ear. Diego's psychic or something, I guess. He sorta knew I was about to call him. Well, there's always been something wrong about that kid, if 'wrong' is what you'd call someone unnecessarily smart. I definitely would, because he's probably got two extra brains or something in there. Always thought his head's too big.

"Alison?"

I stay silent, just for the fun of it. We used to do this when we were kids — 'cause technically we're not kids now — and he used to get pissed as fuck. Pretty sure that hasn't changed.

"You're there?"

"Yeah," I say, laughing slightly. "How are you?"

"I'm okay." I note the fact that he doesn't bother to ask me how I am. How rude. "I heard your house was —"

"Heard yours was too," I say. "What'd they leave for you?"

"I'm in trouble, I think," he replies. I stiffen. So the rumors were true, then. "Caitlyn's note."

Her parting message. How could anyone forget?

"Creepy." I pull the image of our house's vandalism in my head. "Mine was something like an address. Some M-word, sounded like Magnolia or something — oh, right, Madison," I say, mentally clapping myself on the back for remembering that detail. "Madison tower or something. And then something like 'Curved Hallway Seven'."

"How was it written?" he asks. I would've found it funny that he's completely indifferent to the content of the message, but he's Diego, so I let that thought slide.

"How?" I try to remember clearly. "I don't know exactly," I say. "Like — you know, subway graffiti? That sort of thing? With a lot of paint dripping from the lower parts of the letters, if that counts."

"What was the height of the letters?"

"If you think I looked that closely then you've completely forgotten me." I laugh. "I don't know. What do you think of the messages though? Yours and mine?"

"I don't know," he says. "I haven't thought of them that much. It's obviously got to do something with Caitlyn, though. You know what I think? It's just a prank. There've been tons of them before this."

"Yeah, but, like, it's weird, don't you think?" I know it is. There's something about this time that's not very much like the previous times — there's something more sinister. "Did anyone ever paint something like what they did on my wall before?"

"I dunno," Diego says. "I'll think about it and call you back, okay?"

"Oka—"

Before I can finish, he cuts the call.

Rude.

***

I used to think the song I'd selected as my ringtone was nice, but now, after a bajillion rings all I want to do is shoot it back in the bin.

My phone rings again. I glance at the caller ID.

Well — this one would be worth it, probably. I would've called her if I'd had her number. Emilie Badeaux.

I hit the green button. "Hello?"

"Is this Alison?" a very French voice asks. "If it's not, I'm very sorry for disturbing you."

"Hey, Emilie," I say. "It's me. What happened?"

"What was on your wall?"

Jesus Christ, whatever happened to being nice?

"What was on yours?" I ask. I won't tell her; she's stupid if she thinks I would have. She's connected to half the technically illegal gossip Instagram accounts we have here, and I don't want true crime clubs knocking on my door tomorrow morning. "Well?"

"A date," she says. "Or, at least something that looked like it. There were some numbers, and — and a month," she pauses for a while, and I imagine her scrunching her face up in thought, "oh, right. October."

Emilie's got a lot of popular-opinion 'cool' things, but I think the coolest is the way she says 'October'. She says it as 'Octobre' and it sounds like music. I'm not in love or anything, just so you know.

"That's this month, right?" I say, stealing a glance at the calendar I've hung up above my desk. Yes, it is October. Creepy. Almost like the vandal wanted to timestamp their work or something.

"That's the funny thing," Emilie says. "What was on yours?"

"An address," I answer, being as vague as possible. "Don't remember what it said."

"Why do you think they're targeting us, though?" she asks. "Like, I was friends with her, sort of, but you guys weren't," she says. "Oh, wait, do you know who else had their houses vandalised?"

"I think one is Diego," I say. Of course I knew about him. There were pictures of his house on the news already, some channels likening it to some 'attack on his family business' or something. Ugh. Here in Callenfield it's like we lesser people don't even exist.

"Yeah, one is," Emilie says. "There's one more. Matt."

Matt Hastings? Well, that's weird. They must've found the dead body of the person who's doing this in there. Hastings's house is almost as stoned as he is.

"And Hunter," she adds. I squint at no one in particular. This person has a thing for survival skills and location-finding. When Hunter and I used to, well, be together, I could never find his house easily. He was always shifting. I guess he's moved into one permanently now. I couldn't care less.

"Oh," I say. "That's it, then? What was on their walls?"

"I don't know." She pauses for a while. "Okay, if we're done, then..."

"We are, thanks for call—"

Aaaand she cuts the call on me again.

A sudden idea — not the best one, of course — hits me. I scroll through my contacts, resolute that the next call I make is going to be ended by me, and only me.