Here I present the 8th part of the Ron Stone story... A tale that is shaping up to be a hell of a lot longer than I had originally intended... I may end up breaking it up into "seasons" so I can take a break between sections. Even taking some of the story short-cuts I have made, this could easily surpass 50 or 60 sections. I think I will try for 15 section seasons, whataya think?
Read the story, after the Jump. And as usual, read the rest of the story first.
It seems unnatural that a ringing phone would lead to silence, but the second that phone began to ring, it was as if the rest of the world disappeared. Everything seemed focused on that muffled ringing, as a sense of growing dread filled my belly. It was a low ominous sound, and I wanted nothing more then to ignore it, and I had no idea why. How could it be that such a small electronic device could fill me with such dread?
“Are you going to answer that, or just let it ring?” Ashton seemed unaffected by the anxiety that had turned my belly into a mass of wriggling snakes.
“That's not my phone...”
I went into the short version of what happened. I don't know how I had forgotten that I still had the phone, or how I managed to not mention that to the officers at the scene. I suppose being in shock can be a bit of a problem when trying to give the police an account of what happened.
In retrospect, I suppose I should have called the police right then, and pawned this whole ordeal off on them, at least then the guilt wouldn't be gnawing away at me. Instead, I took the idiotic route, and picked up the phone. It was a small thing, about the size of an iPhone. It felt slightly heavy, but was miraculously undamaged by the collision it had had with the speeding taxi. I looked all over the device, and I could find no buttons to turn it on, nor any speakers or even a headphone jack. There was only an unmarked white body with a glossy area I assumed to be the screen.
I handed the contraption to Ashton, and after turning it around a few times in his hands, he handed it back. “What the hell is that thing, and how does it work?”
I shrugged, and tossed the thing down on the couch between us. “All the man said before he died was 8 6 7 5...”