Calling

The story

It was too late in the night to go out, but far too early to sleep. The storm was long gone and the wet, muggy heat was back in the air, tainting the memory of the cool summer rain and the fresh breeze. Liòn made no attempt to move, nor to close his eyes and rest. He found himself torn between the sleepless stupor that comes with boredom and the irresistible urge to make himself a steaming cup of tea and try to fend off the heat by fighting fire with fire.

The open window gave no respite, safe from the comfort of the fresh smell of rain, and the city, far off in the distance, shimmered and flashed so brightly that no star could dare appear in the sky. It was no use trying to rest, nor did a thought of something worth doing came to mind. All there was was to lay there and be bored, and to hope against hope that the wind would pick up again, and maybe thunder and cloud and another downpour would follow.

Still, at least it was quiet. The house was far enough from the highway that its noise was mercifully dulled to the point of being almost inaudible, the city was even further away, the only sound to be heard was the chirping of cicadas and the occasional tweet from some unknown species of nocturnal fowl, hiding in the trees outside. Still, something kept echoing in Liòn’s head, something like a musical note or a little, humming voice, some sort of tickling, irritating voice that pricked his ears and muddled his thoughts to the point that his leg muscles twitched in annoyance, begging him to please get out of bed, to stand up and investigate, to do something about this barely audible yet terribly annoying tune, like the distant ring of a car alarm or the incessant ring of an unanswered phone.

He finally gave in. He stood and paced the room and looked around. He checked his phone, his laptop and his headphones. Nothing. He opened the door and tested the hallway. Nothing. It came from the window, from outside, from far away. He leaned out and closed his eyes, he could hear it clearly now, it was different, now that he listened, it was changing, it was saying something, it was a voice, a signal, a call, it wanted him to go, to follow, to grab the keys and leave his room and drive, quickly, urgently, to get on the highway and head towards the lights, the noise, the city.

The engine roared into life. When did he get in the car? He was driving now, speeding, going way too fast on wet, winding roads. He joined the highway, went into the high gears, the lazy rumble of the V8 pulled him along as he swerved through traffic. The city was getting closer and closer. The highway ended as it merged with the city streets. Traffic, crowds, music, horns, lights, flashes. He slowed to a crawl, drove into the backstreets, away from the neon and the glamor and towards the graffiti-covered walls of railway underpasses and empty warehouses. The voice was still there, a siren’s call, berating him for taking so long, urging him to come, waiting for him, calling.

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