Tell Me What the Rules are Going to Be

Harassed over the phone by a stalker. Just who, or what, is on the other end?

¹
I received the first call some time around 11 in the morning while helping a new housemate move in. That was the first time I answered anyway, the call log showed I’d rejected the same number a few times already. Most likely while half-asleep, assuming it was debt collectors again.

The other thing is, I’d gotten a new phone recently and forgotten to transfer the contacts from the old one. Which meant a nontrivial chance that every unfamiliar number which called me was some friend I’d not yet had occasion to add back into my contacts list. So despite having my hands full unloading the new guy’s car, I answered.

“Hey, who’s this? Make it quick, I’m in the middle of-” It immediately cut in. Scratchy signal noise, like old drivethru intercoms. The voice itself sounded garbled, like someone talking with food in their mouth. “Tell me what the rules are going to be.” I waited for more. When there wasn’t any, I asked again who was on the other end. “Tell me what the rules are going to be.” Prank call. I hung up.

It rang again only a minute later. I put the phone to my ear, ready to tell him to fuck off. Instead, a piercing garble of digital noise accompanied by the most intense pain of my life. I collapsed, the phone’s battery and case coming apart on impact.

I fell silent. Not because the pain stopped but because I found I couldn’t scream. My vision blurred and several times darkened as if I would pass out. Becka found me first. “Oh my god, what happened? Did you hurt yourself? I told you, don’t try to carry the fooseball table yourself but you...shit, you’re really messed up. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

I couldn’t tell her not to, so she did. I passed out before it arrived. When I awoke I had a pounding headache and couldn’t initially remember how I wound up there. Dad sat hunched over asleep in a chair. Mom got the closest thing to a bed, a sort of padded surface by the window.

I made enough noise to rouse them. “I’m so relieved. I said it was a stroke. Did they tell you anything? Your father says there’s a history of epilepsy on his side, I said-” Dad cut her off. “You really had us worried. What were you doing when it happened?” I struggled to recall. “Helping move RJ in. The guy who answered the Craigslist ad.”

“Oh, that’s sketchy. Maybe he slipped you something?” I smiled. “No, Mom. Nothing like that. Seems like a solid guy. I just…I remember getting a phonecall. Then loud noise, then everything after that’s a blur.” They pestered me for more information despite repeated insistence that I’d already told them everything I could remember.

Three days of routine tests and cafeteria grade meals later, I was back to my old routine. Becka made a big deal out of it. I think because not a lot goes on in her life besides her internet dates, which she also tells us every detail of. “So do you have like, a tumor in your brain that could kill you at any moment? What happens to the lease if you die?”

We’d gone in three ways on a pizza. It has to be cheese because Becka’s a vegetarian. Won’t do half and half because “The meat fumes go from one side to the other inside the box during delivery. I don’t want those juices on my side of it.” Having learned long ago that my happiness is contingent on how little I argue with her, I simply learned to like what she likes.

“It was just some creep. Prank call I think. Must have done something to make the phone blast my eardrum, I dunno. There’s still ringing in that ear.” RJ said nothing. Being new, I figured he was observing us to get an idea of our dynamic so he’d know where best to fit himself into it.

Weeks passed without incident. I scheduled my classes at the local community college, bought another minidisc player online, and spent a weekend house cleaning. Cleaning up after Becka, I should call it. Grocery shopping is “replacing stuff Becka ate”. To her, the fridge is a socialist republic.

When the phone rang again while I was vacuuming up her cigarette butts, I nearly answered by reflex. Then, checking the number, I rejected the call and put the number on my block list. One of those little acts of despotism that the average man relishes. It didn’t cross my mind, then, that it would not be so easy.

The next call came at four in the morning. I checked, and found it was Dad’s cell. When I answered, he sounded frantic and out of breath. “I’m on the way to the hospital with your mother. She collapsed while on the phone. Still breathing, they say her pulse is erratic. It looks like the same thing you had. I’ll text you the room number, bring your wallet, they’ll want several forms of ID.”

My heart raced as I pulled my clothes on. How could this happen? He must’ve called her when I blocked him. If I could find this guy, I resolved, I would choke the life out of him and feed the remains to pigs.

As ever, I was hardly the only one speeding, yet the cops managed to pick me out of the herd for special attention. One of those cop cars that outwardly looks like any other until the discreet red and blue LEDs start flashing.

My expression and reason for speeding unexpectedly did the trick. I thought that only happened in movies. I saw him follow me a ways though, presumably making sure I was going to the hospital. On the way, my phone buzzed, but speeding and texting is a good way to wind up road jelly so I ignored it until I was parked. It buzzed again. Fucking Dad, so insistent.

Only, it wasn’t Dad. Nor was it a text. Cautiously, I slid the green circle to the center and raised the phone to my ear. “Tell me what the rules are going to be” the scratchy voice demanded. “You did this you little rat fuck, you pustulent fag turd. I’m going to find out where you’re calling from and show up with some friends. Your life’s already over, you just don’t know it yet.”

The voice came back, sounding muffled and tired. “It will be your father next.” I fell silent. He repeated himself. “Tell me what the rules are going to be.” I trembled with a mixture of rage and fear. Was he watching me? I looked around the parking lot but saw no signs of surveillance.

“I...I can’t hang up on you.” Mild crackling. Then “Very good. What else?” Inwardly, I raged. Who would do this? Yet, I saw no way out of it. If he could target my family, and just change his number, waiting for one of us to let our guard down, we’d never be safe. “I don’t know. Uh...don’t involve the police?” This also pleased him.

“That’s enough for now. Go see your mother. I’ll call again soon. Make sure to pick up.” I fought to control the shakes on my way in. After presenting my driver’s license and social security card, I received something called a visitor pass, and was able to continue to the elevators. Room 402. Fourth floor, then.

I found Dad doting on Mom the way I rarely see these days. They’ve been married for so long, I think he assumes she knows he loves her by now. They fight more than anything else but it’s never serious, I’ve never known a more solidly, inseparably joined pair. Hurt my heart to see Mom so weak though.

She’s getting on in years. Dad and I talk about buying her one of those folding mobility scooters you can take on planes. Medicare will only pay for the huge clunky ones you can’t take anywhere. He’s suggested a segway before as it’s more dignified but I tell him, “She’s clumsy. Even if it’s self balancing she’ll find a way to fall off it.”

At her age, a fall means potential death. Which is why learning that she’d collapsed gave me palpitations. I’ve known one of these days I’ll get that call, and was terrified that today would be it. Yet everything the nurse told me sounded promising. Same symptoms I’d shown, and an equally rapid recovery. Just sleeping, not comatose or anything similarly serious.

For the time being, anyway. I stayed the night at the hospital with dad. We took turns watching over Mom. There were vending machines and a 24/7 coffee shop inside the building which made it somewhat more bearable. We went home at the same time the next day, but were back a day later to pick her up.

I wanted to threaten him. To make good on what I’d promised to do already. I’m sure he anticipated that. Display of power first, to show me he could take away what matters most whenever he pleases. I deliberated whether to call the police. I had nothing to give them but the number. Should that not lead anywhere, he’d discover I’d broken the rules, bide his time, then strike again.

No, no cops just yet. First step would be to see what I could find out on my own. I did a whois on the number. Took me a few tries to find a site that didn’t want me to pay for the results. It returned a bunch of nonsense. Wherever possible, fields were blank. The rest were garbled text and numbers.

Predictable. Nobody would piss off a stranger so badly without taking basic precautions against retaliation. I did my best to think about the situation from his point of view. Assuming it was in fact a man. I decided I shouldn’t rule out use of a voice filter. I began to diagram possibilities in my notebook on the bus ride to and from class. Looked for all the world like a paranoid schizophrenic’s diary.

I popped open the minidisc tray and loaded in the next one. Horribly impractical compared to just using my phone or something but I like physical media and never got tired of the stereotypical retrofuturism of tiny discs. This was a later model you could write files to directly from your PC. The older ones were like tape players, you had to record the songs you wanted and manually make your mix tapes.

I zoned out, watching raindrops slither down the immense bus window, until I heard a familiar voice. “Tell me what the rules are going to be.” I bolted upright, choking slightly. I checked my phone. Nothing. Could it be…? I hit back, and listened carefully. Sure enough, at the same point in the song, his voice cut in. My body went cold. I could feel beads of sweat forming individually as every little hair, head to toe, slowly stood on end.