‘Crisis Line’ (a flash horror story)

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Introduction to “Crisis Line”

Back in the 1970s I had a friend who worked for a crisis intervention call-in service named “Crisis Line.”

She never discussed details of the calls she took, but generally they were related to people who were suicidal because of drugs, abuse or a series of unfortunate events such as debt or job loss.

I wondered if I would be any good at such a job. I don’t know that I was especially empathetic but the job sounded intriguing – sitting at a desk during the late night, reading a book or even writing a book, smoking cigarettes and waiting for the telephone to ring. Lord knows I had provided a sympathetic ear to many a friend who found him or herself in a bad place.

I never made an effort to do anything more than think about it. Shortly after that I entered the last two years of college and that consumed every waking minute of my life. When I graduated I spent the next two years trying to find a job, and then the job I found required that I work the night shift. So, no Crisis Line work.

But I kept that image in mind – of sitting at a desk at night, waiting for the telephone to ring. And as I ramped up my efforts to become a teller of scary tales, I wondered how that person – undoubtedly in a position of trust – might abuse his or her influence over those who called.

Thus, “Crisis Line” was born.

The story appeared in “Horrors! 365 Scary Stories” and received quite a bit of attention. Years later I was contacted by a budding filmmaker who asked if he could option it. He wanted to make a film for the festival circuit. I told him yes, of course, but said film never materialized.

I think “Crisis Line” would make a neat short for an anthology show, so if any of you filmmakers out there are reading this, give me a shout!

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CRISIS LINE

The telephone rings. Murray swallows a mouthful of coffee, picks up the receiver and says, “This is Murray with the Crisis Line. May I help you?”

The line is silent a moment, but Murray can hear the person on the other end holding his breath, willing himself to climb the mountain of fear, to speak. Always, it is this way. But the other person will speak. If not tonight then some other night, when the craziness is howling down the dry canyons and gullies of an even more awe-inspiring mountain of terror. The other person will speak.

“Yeah,” the other person finally whispers, and Murray smiles, picturing a man cocooned in cold weather gear, planting a flag at the top of an ice-encased peak. “I’ve never done this before, you know?”

“I understand,” Murray says, sweetening his voice with sympathy. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

“Uh, yeah,” the other person stammers, and it is a man, Murray decides, although the voice could go either way. “It’s just that I’m – I’m –”

“Hurting?” Murray answers for him. He sips his coffee.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Then maybe I can help,” Murray says.

“It’s my old lady,” the man says. “I – I don’t understand. I caught her shacking up with some other guy, and I don’t understand how she could do this to me.”

“Have the two of you been experiencing marital problems?” Murray asks.

“Oh, some,” the man answers. “Arguments – you know. The kids. Money. Sex – well, not sex, exactly. But romance. Once or twice she said the romance had gone out of our marriage. But hell!” the man continues before Murray can say anything. “I take her out once or twice a month. What more does she expect?”

“It’s not as if you were still dating,” Murray says quietly. The coffee has gone lukewarm.

“Exactly!” the man blurts. “I mean, when you get married, things are supposed to settle down. You don’t have to try as hard, you know, because you’ve done all the work. You put in your eight hours to pay the bills and raise the kids, have a little fun here and there, and enjoy life. Isn’t that what it’s all about?”

“It certainly is,” Murray agrees.

“And now this,” the man seethes. “Screwing around behind my back. She’s gotta know it’s hurting me. Why is she doing this?”

Murray sighs. “Because she’s selfish,” he says, “and because she wants to hurt you.”

“Yes,” the man chokes, and he starts to cry. “That’s – that’s exactly why.”

“And what you must do now,” Murray goes on smoothly, “is keep her from hurting you again.”

“Yes,” the man sobs. “But how?”

Murray takes a mouthful of tepid coffee and answers, “Take the direct approach. Sit her down and tell her there will be no adultery, or –”

“Or?” the man asks.

Murray pushes the coffee mug away. It has gone totally cold. “Or you’ll hurt her back.”

“How do I do that?” the man asks. He has stopped crying. A whiff of curiosity has entered his voice.

“Oh, lots of different ways,” Murray says lightly. “You can screw around behind her back. You can kick her ass. You can blow her brains out.”

The man sucks in a shocked breath. “Jesus!” he breathes. “Kill her?”

“Depends on how badly you’re hurting.”

The line is silent a moment. Then, the man says, “I’m hurting pretty bad.”

“I know you are,” Murray says.

“She’s the one who went and fucked things up.”

“That’s exactly right,” Murray says.

“She deserves to be punished.”

“You have every right to punish her,” Murray says.

“She really ought to be punished,” the man says.

“You’re right. She does.”

“OK,” the man says, his voice now agitated and hypertensive. “I’ll take care of things. I’ll take care of things.”

“I’m sure you will,” Murray says, and as the man hangs up, Murray smiles and stares at the cup of coffee. Totally cold. He sticks his index finger into the cup, and the coffee begins to boil.

“You just gotta know how to talk to ’em,” he says under his breath, licking his finger.

The telephone rings.

—

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .