Ficlets

Harold brushed past his secretary and shut the door behind him. The coffee in his styrofoam cup threatened to spill out onto the floor as his hand shook.

It was 2 am when he finally disconnected the phone. All those calls, always the same distorted voice, always the same message.

He collapsed into his office chair and sharp pain shot up his leg as his knee connected with “that damn computer”.

Once his vision cleared his eyes finally made sense of the message on his screen, “You have 389 messages”. His hand reached for the mouse and he prayed for spam. Canadian pharmacies, cheap Viagra, a Nigerian business proposal, anything but that message.

With a click his fears were realized. Three numbers burned into his retinas. Those three same numbers that had repeated over and over by that voice all night long.

He stared at the screen and tried again to figure out how anyone could know. No one was there when it happened. He was sure of it, but there were the numbers, and they couldn’t be denied.

Someone knew.