The Ringing

They found the thing floating in the middle of nowhere, halfway between Earth and the galactic core. It was the ringing that had tipped them off, the hollow, crawling tension that buzzed vague and expectant, hazy among the stellar noise. Only the historian recognized the thing as a relic from humanity’s forgotten past, but even he hadn’t known what to make of how far out it was or why, floating there, disconnected from everything, it was still ringing. Only when the captain finally agreed to bring it aboard did it stop, and even when the historian climbed inside the ancient booth, running fingers across the receiver, the thing stayed silent, dead. They say that sometimes at night, here, in the antiquities wing of the Smithsonian, though, the phone will ring, filling the silent halls with its haunting cry. Those who claim to have heard it swear that the moment they touch the receiver, the moment they try to answer, it goes silent again. No one has ever had the nerve to try to pick up the phone, to even whisper quietly into that dark receiver.

“Hello. . .”

“Is someone there?”