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  Burn Phone

  Burn Phone

  Copyright © 2010, by Thomas M Malafarina.

  Cover Copyright © 2010 Sunbury Press. Front cover image by Alecia Nye. Back cover photo of Thomas Malafarina by Steve Rouss.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  August 2010

  ISBN 978-1-934597-09-5

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Camp Hill, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA

  Dedication

  For my parents: George T. Malafarina and Lois G. Malafarina (both deceased). The things you taught me that I wanted to learn the least, have never failed to help me the most. You are always in my thoughts and in my heart.

  Power tends to corrupt, and

  absolute power corrupts absolutely.

  John Emerich Edward Dalberg Acton,

  first Baron Acton

  1834 to 1902

  Chapter 1

  The tarnished brass customer entry-warning bell dangling above the weathered front door of the establishment clanged with a tinny clank. A large man in a glistening rain-soaked black trench coat and driving cap plodded inside, dripping what seemed like gallons of water in his wake. Ancient floorboards worn from decades of foot traffic groaned beneath his sodden leather shoes as the musty aroma of a time long since forgotten wafted up into his sinuses. The smells were like those he had experienced before in similar places of business, though he seldom had any need to frequent such places. However, these odors seemed somewhat more mildewed than those with which he had been previously familiar and much more disturbing. For a brief moment, his mind produced an image of his walking down a long flight of marble steps covered with grime and dried leaves into an underground mausoleum, housing ancient tombs of age-old rotting dead. It felt as if he were walking into a place of great decay, as if the very building, which held the store, was beginning to fester and decompose around him.

  The man, Charles Wilson, appeared visibly frustrated, looking curiously from side to side as if contemplating whether the store was actually open for business or if he might be the only patron on this rainy Sunday evening. It soon became apparent that he was, as there were no other customers in the large storeroom.

  The dark gray paint-chipped door slammed mechanically behind him, its glass rattling loosely in its worn wooden frame, momentarily startling Wilson. He did not understand why the place made him feel so creepy, almost as if a multi-legged insect had just crawled down the back of his shirt collar, working its way down his spine, its many legs feeling feather-like against his flesh. He gave the door an unpleasant glance as if that single action might somehow help him regain his composure and shed the spine-chilling sensation. Charles looked down toward his feet, watching the raindrops drip from his coat to the floor as if in slow motion, beading up on the dust-covered floorboards before slowly seeping down into the planking to join the countless others that had fallen during previous decades. Watching the droplets had almost a hypnotic effect on Wilson as they transformed from beaded circular orbs to flattened elliptical dots against a background of powdery sediment.

  Charles lifted his head slowly as if still in a trance, beginning to study the interior of the dismal looking establishment in detail. He thought for a moment that he must have been mistaken, that such a place as this could never possibly have what he most desperately needed. However, he was certain the sign in the front window had advertised this store did, in fact, have what he wanted; that it did sell prepaid cellular phones. The place did not seem to Wilson to be the kind of store that would ever provide such a service, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, though it seemed like a dumb question. His mind flashed thirty years or more ago, back to a time when one of his high-school teachers had told him that the only dumb question was one not asked. Wilson did not actually believe this, as he had heard many outright stupid questions asked during his lifetime.

  Shaking off the remainder of the evening’s rainwater, he removed his driving cap, rolling it up and putting into his right coat pocket unconsciously as he had done a thousand times before. He opened the buttons on the front of his trench coat, more out of habit than necessity. It certainly was not hot in the store; on the contrary, it almost seemed to be more damp and chillier inside the building than it had been outside in the storm.

  Wilson cursed himself for leaving his own personal cell phone at home in Pennsylvania before leaving for this very important business trip. He wondered how, in the busy twenty-first century world of high technology, he could be such a fool as to leave for a business meeting two time zones across the country, without taking his cell phone - especially since the blasted thing had over a thousand business contacts stored inside. As was the case for so many of his counterparts, Wilson’s cell phone had become his lifeline to the business world, providing him instant access to anyone, anytime twenty-four seven, three sixty-five.

  He thought for a moment about how technology had so drastically changed his life and how he conducted business over the past ten years. He often marveled at how only what seemed like a hand full of years ago, before pagers, cell phones and such, he had managed to conduct business and run his personal life just fine. But nowadays if he was without his cell phone for even as little as an hour, Wilson felt completely cut off from the rest of the world, a world that provided him with a substantial income. In addition, not a day went by when Charles Wilson did not thank, God, Jesus and his lucky stars for that income.

  He had become aware that his phone was missing as he was on the way to the Philadelphia airport, having gotten off to a late start. When the realization hit him, it was too late to turn around and go back for the phone without missing his plane. He actually considered returning home regardless and taking another flight but the next available flight was in six hours later. Since he had to get up early the next morning for a critical meeting and knew he would need a full night’s sleep, he opted to not return for it. He could not believe his idiocy.

  He called his wife from the airport pay phone, telling her how stupid he had been and begging her to overnight the phone to his hotel first thing Monday morning, which meant that he would not likely receive it until Tuesday morning. He hated the idea of having to fork out the money for the overnight shipping, even though he could easily afford it. Wilson hated waste and in his mind, shipping the phone was simply throwing away money because of his own forgetfulness, which irked him to no end.

  In the meantime, he knew he had to have some type of phone to communicate with the outside world, which of course was another waste of money. Regardless, of how he felt about it he had to acquire one, so he figured a ‘burn phone’ seemed like the best option. He chuckled to himself about using the term burn phone since that was the street vernacular for a prepaid cellular phone that he heard used on the countless television crime shows, which he loved to watch. He wondered if maybe he was watching too many of the cop shows lately, if he was starting to insert their lingo into his normal vocabulary.

  Wilson had tried to purchase a phone at the Philadelphia airport with the limited time he had available before his flight, but found all of the kiosks and shops which sold pho
nes closed on Sunday afternoon. In addition, before he had the opportunity to investigate any further, he heard the airline announcing that his flight was ready for boarding.

  He assumed that he would simply have to get a phone when he arrived at his destination. However, once again, fate seemed to have been working against him and none of those airport shops were open either. Luckily, he was two hours ahead of schedule thanks to the time difference. It was around 8:00 pm back in Pennsylvania but only 6:00 pm Mountain Time so he had a bit of time to look for a phone before settling down for the night.

  Luckily, he had backups of all of his critical phone numbers stored on his laptop computer. While on the plane, Wilson had created a special file containing all of the numbers that he would need for the next two days. He planned to print them out at the hotel’s business center later so he could have them readily available.

  When he arrived at his hotel he was disappointed to find that the hotel gift shop closed as well, not that it mattered, as they did not carry cell phones. The front desk attendant at the hotel, a young man Wilson had thought of as a greasy post pubescent reject from Mickey D’s, had pointed him to the side street around the corner from the hotel, suggesting that there might be a few places still open. Unfortunately, Wilson discovered that it was not so much a side street as an alley, and a dark one at that. The street was the sort of place that Wilson or anyone with a shred of common sense for that matter, might do well to avoid. It was not that Wilson was the cowardly type but, as he was often fond of saying, only a fool tempts fate. And so far, this day, fate had not done him any favors. However, tonight his need for a phone outweighed his natural tendency for precaution, so he decided that a trip down the alley was his only option.

  He had been wary about finding any businesses still open at 6:00 pm on Sunday evening and of course was not surprised to find all of the stores closed except for this particular one. The strange store was the first he had come to that showed any potential, though he still had doubts regardless of what the window sign had advertised.

  The store was markedly odd to say the least, a dark, dusty, cluttered sort of concern with an eclectic collection of bric-a-brac consisting largely of items that seemed more like the sorts of things one would find in an antique store or perhaps a flea market. At first the contents of the store looked to Wilson to be typical ‘junque store’ nonsense and he assumed that was why the place had such an old musty odor. Upon closer examination, Wilson noted that the items seemed to be much more ominous in appearance than what he had expected to find.

  He noticed tattered tapestries hanging on the sidewalls starting high near the top of the fifteen-foot ceilings. The tapestries seemed to be faded and covered with cobwebs and years of dust. Dreary old oil paintings, all dark in appearance, the subjects of which he could not discern from his distance hung askew on other walls, and leaned against stacks of grayed wooden crates piled high on the floor.

  A collection of antique lamps with aged yellowed shades covered numerous paint flaked end tables. Some stood high on top of the stacks of grimy wooden crates. There was scarcely room to move about the place with only a few small winding aisles leading to the service counter near the rear of the store. There was stuff piled virtually everywhere, making the place seem more like an abandoned warehouse than an actual place of business. The longer Wilson stayed in the building, the more he realized that he had made a mistake. He could not believe the stuff piled all around him.

  Stuff; yes that was the best word for it, stuff. This place was overflowing with mountains of stuff. In Wilson’s opinion, the place was simply a disorganized jumble. In addition, the lighting was minimal; coming from a few bare light bulbs suspended from the paint-flaked dark ceiling, and a thick layer of dust seemed to cover everything. Spider webs spanned the air between the stacked items. Wilson could not comprehend how someone would not at least take the time to clean off the webs, unless the owner of the shop was trying for some type of look for his special discerning customers. Wilson had seen store and restaurant owners go to extremes to try to produce an certain image to attract just the ‘right’ type of customers. He imagined a group of rich New York artsy types walking around the store, mouths agape, overcome with delight at the primitive authenticity of the place. Wilson always felt that those type of people seemed to be impressed by the strangest of things. Again, he noticed how the musty smell of the place was almost overpowering. Wilson did have some minor mold and dust allergies and was glad that he had at least remembered to take his medicine this morning. “What a junk shop”, he thought to himself.

  Wilson walked slowly down one of the narrow aisle ways; being extra cautious not to bump into anything for fear that something might fall to the floor and shatter into a thousand costly pieces. “Costly indeed”, he thought to himself, recalling signs he had seen in gift shops throughout his travels stating ‘You Break It, You Bought It’. He was certain that there was not a single thing he wanted to buy in this despicable store, that is, of course, unless they actually did have a cell phone, which was starting to seem less likely with each passing minute.

  “You Break It, You Bought It” he thought to himself. His overactive imagination taking over as he looked around the store and thought to himself, “More like, you break it and a long dead mummy ala Boris Karloff will rise up from one of those old creates, drag its bandaged legs across the store, rip your still beating heart out of your chest and eat it right before your eyes.” The second of what would eventually be many such chills ran down Wilson’s spine. He shook it off, blaming it on the evening’s cold rain and the strangeness of the store.

  As he rounded one of the aisle’s curves he came upon a surprisingly shiny ceramic statue, which stood about three feet high, resting on a small dust covered table. Between the statue and the table was an old yellowed doily, once obviously ornately crafted, now filthy and torn. Upon closer examination of the statue, Wilson realized he had never seen anything quite as disturbing as this gruesome thing. It was a sculpted image of a naked male creature with an over-sized phallus jutting out from between its bowed legs; the member sculpted at full attention with the statue’s right hand grasping it firmly at the base. The statue’s head was arched back, eyes closed and mouth open as if howling with pleasure, sporting a Fu Manchu mustache and pointed goatee on its chin, while ram like horns protruded backward from its forehead, leading to a smooth hairless head. Looking down the length of the statue, Wilson saw that the left arm of the sculpture was outstretched holding in its talon-like clawed hand, a severed head of a man with blood streaming from its eyes, its wide-open mouth and exposed stump of a neck. The dangling head appeared to be screaming as if experiencing inconceivable agony. “What was that all about?” Wilson wondered to himself. He had never seen such a horrible creation in his life.

  Far up ahead, behind what he assumed to be the sales counter, Wilson noticed a slight built elderly man, probably the owner, watching his approach. The old man was definitely not dressed for business, wearing a yellowed, stained athletic tee shirt, mottled with holes; the type of shirt Wilson heard young teens refer to as ‘wife beater’ shirts. The old man was bald, except for a thin white ring of disheveled hair, which formed a frizzled strip about the back of the man’s head connecting one huge ear to the other.

  Wilson nodded a hello in the shopkeeper’s direction, but the skeletal old man simply continued watching him, almost as if he had been expecting him, awaiting his arrival. He thought to himself, “This place mustn’t get much business, the guy looks like he just found a long lost friend”, as he continued looking around at the dingy surroundings.

  Studying the setting further, Wilson could begin to distinguish some of the subject matter of the dark paintings and tapestries, and hoped that he might be imagining things. The bizarre works seemed to depict scenes of unspeakable bloody violence, flailing, dismemberment, sexual orgies and other such forms of debauchery. He was suddenly thankful for the lack of lighting in the store so that he might be sp
ared some of the more shocking details of these repugnant works. A horrible sort of sick sinking feeling began to settle in his stomach. “What sort of place was this?” he wondered to himself once again.

  Wilson looked again toward the service counter of the store, trying desperately to divert his eyes from the disturbing art surrounding him. He noticed a huge grandfather clock next to the service counter. The clock seemed to have a great deal or ornate carvings on its wooden frame. He initially thought for a moment that he would have to remember to check the clock out when he got closer. However, after what he had seen so far, he was not certain that he should. Again, he saw the old man still staring at him, a very peculiar smile appearing on his face. The cold chill returned.

  Although Wilson was twice the old man’s size, and probably thirty years his junior, there was something so uncomfortably odd and perhaps even threatening about the old man’s demeanor, that it made Wilson feel uneasy. He could not quite put his finger on it, but the feeling was certainly beginning to disturb him. A third chill descended upon him and he recalled his mother’s old expression from his childhood and thought “a goose just walked across my grave.” He had absolutely no idea what that meant, but that particular expression seemed to fit perfectly with how he was feeling right now, as he imagined a filthy, bloodied goose, near death, dragging itself pitifully across a grave adorned with a battered tombstone baring his name. He gave an involuntary shudder. Sometimes his imagination was more of a curse than a blessing.

  Wilson began to think that maybe he should change his plans, should simply turn and leave this strange place and perhaps with luck, find another store open further down the street. On the other hand, maybe he would just wait for his own phone to arrive Tuesday, or find another one Monday morning. Nevertheless, he really wanted to get a cell phone tonight. Perhaps he believed that when he had a phone in his hands, once again, all would be right with the world. Perhaps much of the discomfort he was feeling might be simply withdrawal symptoms from not having a phone.