Author's Notes: I tried to make this a twoshot only, but this chapter is just way too big to post alone. I'm going to have to make it a three chapter story, though I tried to hard to just keep it simply two. Ah, well. Sometimes it doesn't all come together like we want it. Anyway, sorry for the wait.

I hope you guys read this in the dark when you are alone. It sets for a better mood.

"What's wrong with you?" I vaguely hear my brother ask at breakfast. I don't bother looking up and just continue to stare at my cold oatmeal with a bobbing head. Fuck, I'm tired of these virtually sleepless nights. "Alfred? Are you OK?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, Matt. I'm good. Just a little . . . ," I feel my eyelids shutting, my thoughts drifting away from me for a moment as my mind goes blank. I nod back into reality and smile at Matt. He looks concerned.

"Just a little . . . ?"

"A little what?" I ask.

Matt simply sighs and shakes his head, removing his empty bowl of cereal and placing it in the sink. "You should stop staying up so late," he mutters as he exits the room. Well, duh. If I could, I would. It's just not that easy.

Figuring I'm not going to eat this morning anyway, I shuffle about the living room to get my school stuff. When I have everything together and move to leave the house, I feel my legs turning to jelly, my muscles feeling like they spontaneously calcified somehow into immobility, even though that's ridiculous and impossible.

I stare at my grandmother's old phone by the doorway.

Arthur hasn't called me in a few days, but I can't bring myself to care. The echoes of what I felt a few nights ago still linger around my thoughts. I haven't been able to sleep well since, and I take every excuse I can to avoid the foyer. Even I know after a few days of this that I can't keep it up. I don't have the stamina, and it's ridiculous to think I can avoid the main entrance to our house.

With a frown, I stick my chin up and puff my chest out, the epitome of forced confidence. When I pass the phone I don't even glance at it or the mirror above it.

It's sad how irrationally paranoid I've become.

It's Friday night, nearly a week later, when Arthur finally decides to contact me.

The chime of the phone almost makes me jump out of my skin. I don't expect it when I'm sitting quietly at the computer in the den. With a heaviness in my chest, I slowly ease out of the chair and creep my way to the open doorway. I peer down the hallway to the foyer, and sure enough that phone is ringing.

I let it ring itself out.

I continue to stare at it even after the house is silent, but then it starts up again. It's such a haunting noise. Sometimes I hear it in my sleep, when I manage it.

I swallow the emotion in my throat and take a step out onto the hardwood of our hallway, inching my way towards the phone. When I finally stand in front of it, my numb fingers curling around the handle, I already know who will be waiting on the other line.

Static.

"Hello? Jones' residence." I hold my breath when I don't hear anything immediately. For a minute I think it's a fluke call, but then I hear a quick sniff on the other end of the line.

"Alfred?"

My shoulders relax at the downtrodden tone of Arthur's voice. He sounds so pitiful that I forget, for now, why I was scared of him. I grasp the phone tighter to my ear.

"Hey, Art. How's it going?"

"I'm so very sorry, Alfred. I didn't mean to accuse you of – You see, I've been a bit ashamed of how juvenile I acted towards you that I couldn't bring myself to call sooner. I'm sorry, from the bottom of my heart."

And he does sound genuine. I feel the need to comfort a fellow human being whenever an opportunity presents itself, and Arthur is no different. I force myself to swallow a large spoonful of logic: that I couldn't have seen a face in the closet; that someone whispered in my ear; that Arthur is somehow involved with me feeling on edge nearly every second of every day in my own home.

"Don't sweat it," I assure him, hoping to sound as authentic as Arthur always sounds. "Everyone has moments like that."

"Are you sure? I don't want to be a burden."

"Arthur, you're not. Hey, I'm sorry, too, OK? I didn't know I was coming off like a jerk. I didn't mean to imply that you don't have any friends or anything –"

"Oh, but I don't," he admits reluctantly and I pause, hesitant. "You're my only true friend at the moment."

I'm silent.

"I don't want to push you away."

There is a lot of pressure when someone tells you you're they're only friend. But I try to imagine myself in Arthur's shoes, from what he has told me, at least.

Raised with an abusive foster mother.

Tormenting brothers.

His best friend up and disappearing when he needed him the most.

"You can't," I blurt, and it's Arthur's turn to be silent. "I'm not going anywhere, Arthur. I'm not."

"Do you swear?"

I feel it – the sudden dread that is nagging at me. It eats me up and makes my stomach writhe. I bite my lip and taste tangs of blood.

"Yeah. Sure, Art. I swear."

Arthur calls a lot more after that. I slip back into the routine of conversing with him after school or late some nights. He doesn't impose in the middle of the night anymore after I explain to him that I need sleep. He feels guilty enough.

"Do you still have trouble sleeping?" he asks one afternoon. I sit down on the floor and lean my back against the wall.

"Sometimes. But if I don't get any disruptions I'm usually good to go," I lie. I still haven't been able to sleep well since that night when Arthur called. Of course there isn't anyone in my house, but I always feel the creeping sensation of eyes following me.

"When you can't sleep, you should try clearing your mind and humming."

I snort. "Humming? Seriously, dude?" Arthur chuckles.

"Yes. I, too, found it to seem childish, but it does work. I would wager anything on it."

"You hum when you go to bed?" I tease. It isn't what I'm really expecting from him. Maybe get some herbal tea shit and listen to whale songs or something. Arthur seems like that kind of guy to me, not someone who hums lullabies.

"I used to. When I was younger, mostly. My mother would get blitzed and go a little loony. Hm, well, she was always a little loony." He sounds thoughtful. I purse my lips and scratch the back of my neck.

"You don't say."

"She would get angry at nothing at all and stick me in the closet; tie the door shut with a scarf. Imagine: a world of total darkness. When she'd calm down, I would hear her sit against the door and start to hum. It was the only way to fall asleep when you believed yourself to be trapped."

I feel my eyes glancing nervously to the foyer closet across from me. It's propped open, like I generally keep it now. I can see coats and baseball equipment. My fingers curl into my palm as I imagine a small boy with messy blonde hair wailing and pounding to get out. Anger slithers up from inside me.

"No offense, but your mom sounds like a bitch."

Arthur laughs but I don't see what's so funny. "She had her moments."

"Yeah, well, her moments sound like prison material," I huff.

"There are far worse things to experience in this world, Alfred. I just count my blessings that I've made it this far. I got to meet you, after all."

I laugh, rubbing my arm in manly embarrassment. Because that is the only way I'd ever get embarrassed, clearly. "Well, I guess you have a point. I mean, the only traumatic things that've happened to my family are the dog getting hit by a car when I was six, and my grandpa running off with some tramp."

"Your grandfather did that?" Arthur questions, sounding mildly alarmed.

I shrug. "Yeah. That's what my mom told me, anyway. He just up and disappeared one day; vanished." I make a gesture with my hand that I know Arthur can't see, like smoke bursting. "He spent a lot of time at the office right before, rarely ever coming home. I remember going over a lot and seeing grams crying. Then he just took off without saying anything. Who does that unless they're having an affair?"

"That's traumatic in its own right."

"Well, it wasn't so much on me as it was my grandma. She never got over it . . ." I ran my tongue over my lips and smiled sardonically. "Actually, she's probably the reason why I'm talking to you."

"How so?"

"My grandpa bought her this phone. 's probably why she hung onto it so much, my mom, too."

Arthur sighed lightly into the speaker. "I'd be cautious to say I'm grateful for that situation. It must have been horrible for her."

"Sure. Don't downplay getting locked in a closet all your life," I snort. Arthur chuckles through the phone.

"This conversation took a turn for the worst, didn't it?"

"For once I agree with you," I concede. "New subject, please?"

"I'm sure I can think of something."

"How old are you, anyway, Arthur? You sound like you've been through a lot."

Arthur chuckles into the phone, but it doesn't sound happy like a laugh should be. "I'm sure I come off that way, don't I? I'd figure around your age."

"And what's my age?"

"You sound like you're a young adult. I know you attend mandatory school, too."

He's right. I just had my eighteenth birthday over the summer.

"You're eighteen?" I ask incredulously.

"One could say around there. I'm fresh into my twenties."

A grin creeps onto my face. "So you could buy me a drink?"

"I'm not scrounging together my meager funds to travel out to Texas just for a few fingers of whiskey, Alfred."

My grin slides from my face, slow, like butter melting on a warm piece of toast. My throat feels tight. "Texas?" I mutter, speaking around a sudden constricting windpipe.

There's a long pause.

"That is where you live, isn't it?" He sounds confused, unsure.

"How do you know where I live?" I feel dizzy. Paranoid.

"You told me," Arthur says. His voice is distant in my ears as I clutch the phone to my face. My hand is sweating. "Alfred, lad, are you alright? You don't sound OK. Alfred?"

"Did I?" I mutter, managing a weak smile. Arthur's quiet, his voice worried.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he repeats.

"I'm fine. Just been tired."

"Oh. Would you like me to go?" he offers, seeming so very small. I take the opportunity while it's there, before I can second-guess it.

"Yeah. I think – I think I'm just gonna lay down for a little," I say, running my hand over my face.

"Feel better," Arthur tells me as I hang up the phone. I wander to the couch and lean back against it. The leather crinkles under the pressure of my back. It sounds like cackling birds or bubble wrap. I spend the next hour retracing every conversation I've ever had with Arthur, running our words over and over through my head. I wrack my mind, but I don't ever seem to recall telling Arthur where I live.

But I had to have, right? How else would he know?

Sure.

Right.

That makes sense.

I chew on the string from my sweatshirt hoodie. I'm still not so sure as I try to convince myself for the rest of the day.

When fall bleeds into winter, the nights feel longer and darker. School lets out for winter break, but I spend most of it working or sleeping. I hardly ever see my friends anymore. Life resumes; there is no change.

I wake up one night of no particular significance, thirstier than I've ever felt before. My dry mouth isn't quenched when I frown, patting the empty nightstand beside my bed. I crawl out from beneath the warm cocoon of blankets and meander downstairs. My toes feel like icicles against the chilly hardwood.

I click the kitchen light on. It's a dull bulb over the sink, but I get enough light to see the silhouettes of our furniture. With a yawn, I fill a glass with tap water under the faucet, downing it in four large gulps before refilling it to the brim.

I turn the light off and pad my way to the staircase, nursing my drink with the full intention of toppling back into unconsciousness. When I make it halfway up the stairs my foot pauses mid-air when my ears pick up something. It's something small, like the kind of noise a mouse would make under the floorboards or in the walls. But in a house so quiet in the dead of night, I'm suddenly more alert, awake.

I bend to peer over the banister. I can't see anything clearly in the darkness, my only light source the moon coming in through the window on the front door. I'm still for a minute, waiting to hear anymore movement.

"Fuckin' rats," I groan, turning my attention back to the stairs. Two steps more and I hear something again, but this time I don't entertain the idea of rats.

The hair stands up on the back of my neck. My muscles are rigid. My mouth suddenly tastes tart. I edge my way over to the banister again and glance down, my body weighed down as a soft sound emerges from beneath me somewhere.

It's quiet, almost soothing, but in a big house like this with not a soul besides me awake, it's eerie.

It's humming.

The melody is almost too quiet for me to even hear, but there it is, floating aimlessly from below the stairs. I drop the glass and dart the rest of the way to my bedroom, changing my mind at the last second and making a beeline for my brother's.

I toss open his door and rip the covers from his body. Matt's mind is too sleep-addled to fight back immediately when I shove my body next to his.

"What are you doing?" he demands, nearly falling off the mattress. My lips stay pursed as I press against him, my eyes straining to make out the door.

Matt keeps shoving me and grumbling and being an all around pissy annoyance, but he wears down and eventually reluctantly goes back to sleep after fifteen minutes. I stay awake for another few hours, eyes never leaving the doorway.

When morning comes I'm the pissy annoyance. I thought I was passed my insomnia phase, but it appears I was wrong.

Matt shoots me a strange look when he gets out of bed, but doesn't say anything until I'm finished showering and eating breakfast in the kitchen.

"What was up with you last night?" he asks, his brow knitted.

I shrug and stare in a daze at the wall. I won't sit with my back to the foyer anymore. Matt's a smart kid and he notices.

"Al, come on. You've been really weird lately . . ."

Great. Now Matt's going to worry. First Arthur, now my brother – what's next? Are my parent's going to get in on this?

"You going to say anything?" he prompts, leaning over with frustration in his voice. I'm about to tell him to leave me alone when it strikes me that I do wish I'd have someone to confide in. I remember mom brushing me off when I mentioned the phone before.

I felt so stupid.

When I turn to see Matt's face scrunched up in subdued unease, I figure feeling stupid is the better alternative to feeling scared.

"If I . . . tell you what's been bothering me, you have to promise not to laugh," I say, hesitant to even bring this up. Matt gets more serious but scoots his chair closer. My fingers skirt nervously around the edge of my bowl as I try to word my thoughts properly – word these weird feelings and situations that have suddenly been happening to me. Ever since I picked up that damn phone.

"Do you ever – Matt, have you ever heard the phone ring?" I say, my eyes darting away from his face and then back. He looks confused. "The black one. Grandma's old phone," I clarify.

"It's broken," he says, like that's supposed to answer everything.

I scoot closer to him, eagerly. "No. No, it's not. It's been ringing."

Matt is quiet for a second, letting my words sink in. "Someone's been calling it?" he says, sounding uncertain.

I nod emphatically, feeling a sweat grip me. My heart is pounding so hard I think I might faint, the adrenaline is so potent. I didn't know when I started hating Arthur's calls, but I do. I do so much.

"Me. Someone's been calling me, Mattie."

And so I tell him. I tell him about Arthur, about the face in the closet, and the humming in the foyer. I tell him about the weird noises at night and the whispering in my ears and the incessant ringing ringing ringing.

I tell him all about Arthur and his insecurities that cause his mood swings.

By the time I'm done pouring my guts out, I'm out of breath and rigid, staring expectantly at my brother. His mouth is a thin, hard line, his eyebrows knitted in distress. He's the epitome of troubled.

"Well?" I say when he doesn't even make a move to do anything. He shifts.

"Alfred, you do know how crazy this sounds," Matt reluctantly mumbles. I knew he wouldn't believe me, but it still stings me enough to recoil.

"I know," I admit. "But it's true. I wouldn't make this up!"

"Are you sure they aren't just nightmares?"

I scoff. "Why would I have nightmares when I'm awake?"

"Well, maybe you're just–"

I feel the burning anger of a thousand coals scalding beneath my skin. "I swear to God, if you say that I'm imagining this . . ."

Matt looks nervous, running his hand up and down his arm distractedly. He bites at his lip when he refuses to meet my gaze. It hurts me more than I thought it would, but damn. That he would think I'd make this shit up?

I hide how much it's really affecting me.

"Did you ever think it's just stress?" He looks at me and I send him a confused frown. "Well, you have been working a lot of hours, and you said you weren't sleeping well to begin with. Plus, that kid just died at school from that seizure, and there was that assembly . . ."

"How does some guy I don't know make me stressed out?" I snip. Matt frowns at me.

"I'm just trying to help."

"By what? Calling me bonkers?"

"I never said that," he denies. "I just – there's always a logical explanation for everything, Alfred."

I laugh, the noise grating against my throat. Matt doesn't appreciate it. He rubs his palm down his face and sighs heavily. "OK, so say the phone really is ringing, then."

I perk up.

"So what? It's just a phone. It's not like this Arthur guy can do anything." When my jaw clenches and I stare at my soggy Cheerios like they did me a personal wrong, Matt pats my knee. I peer up at him. "You think he can?"

I hear that haunting humming swimming through my head. "I don't know . . ."

"What, do you think he can get in the house? The more you answer the phone, the more access he has?" I feel this panic gripping me with a smothering embrace. I've never consciously thought of it that way, but now that it's out there, it's all I can think about. "That's crazy, Alfred," Matt's voice says softly.

"God, am I going nuts, Matthew?" I ask around a crumpled chuckle.

When I look in his eyes, I know we both don't think it's funny.

I ignore the black phone for over a week. It calls incessantly; back to back to back to back. I hear that chiming in my dreams, when I can manage sleep.

I break down a few days after Christmas.

"Hello?" I greet, monotonous and mechanical. Matt told me that when Arthur calls again I should emotionally distance myself from him. It will be easier to get this fiasco over with.

I'm nervous, but I give it a shot. What do I have to lose?

"Alfred," Arthur breathes, sounding relieved. I shift my weight to my other foot. "I've been calling for nearly a fortnight trying to get in touch with you. I'd been under the impression that something terrible had befallen you."

"I'm fine." I lock eyes with myself in the mirror, hating the dark circles beneath them.

"Are you really? One doesn't just drop off the face of the earth like that."

"I told you I'm having trouble sleeping."

Arthur pauses. "That hasn't improved? Perhaps you should see a physician."

"Maybe I'd get some sleep if you didn't keep calling me in the middle of the night," I grumble. Arthur goes quiet. I breathe into the speaker, waiting for his response with tingling nerves.

"I was only worried about you," he offers. "I missed you."

"Yeah, well, you're – Maybe you should just back off."

"Back–?" Arthur sputters, and it's so weird to hear the ever poised and proper Arthur choke on his words. It'd be hilarious if not for the fact that this guy's been up my ass for months.

"I think we should take a break from each other," I say, hoping he'll just let it go. I know I'm his only friend, but he'll make others. People make other friends.

"What are you saying, Alfred?" Arthur demands, his voice slowly getting higher. "Where is this coming from? I don't – Is it something I said? I'm sorry for ringing you so frequently – You know I just worry."

"I'm. Fine," I repeat, my words clipped.

"Alfred –"

"I just need some time to myself. You'll be fine without me."

"Wait, wait," he all but cries out into the phone when I go to hang up. I wince, the nausea from my nerves causing a hoard of butterflies to be unleashed in my gut. I just want Arthur to leave me alone. "Don't you leave me. You can't leave me like this, Alfred!"

"I'm sorry," I utter quickly over his senseless screaming. I don't even pay attention to his desperate words. I want to get off the phone. "Goodbye, Arthur," I say, hanging up the phone on a howling sob that raises the hairs on my arms.

I stand in front of the phone for the next few seconds, vibrating with energy, my fingers flexing at my sides. The phone is silent, then it starts to ring. I anticipated this and grab the handle, forcing it to my ear with a bark.

"I said go away!"

I slam it back down. It's not even a beat before the phone starts up again. My lip curls and I clench my fists, picking it up and tossing it as hard as I can against the floor. It gives a hollow bang, chipping against the wood. I kick it into the wall.

It continues to ring for an hour before my parents get home from work. I'm watching the T.V. when I hear their voices.

"What the . . . ?" My dad mutters, stepping on a piece of the phone. I then hear my mom's gasp, and then she's hysterical.

"What happened! Oh my God, what happened to – Richard," she says, and I do feel bad for making her cry. I cringe and hunker down into the couch.

Dad comes into the living room a minute later, jacket draped at the bend of his elbow. "What the heck went on in here?" he asks.

"What?"

"Your grandmother's phone is in pieces. Who broke it?" He stands in front of me, a No Games expression on his face as my mom sniffles in the foyer. She loves that phone.

"I accidentally hit it with my baseball gear," I lie.

"Well, why did you leave it all over the floor?" He looks exasperated.

"I don't know," I shrug, and even I know that sounds heartless and insensitive. But I can't really tell them the truth now, can I? So I bite the inside of my cheek and ignore the side of me that's warring to apologize to my mom and just stare up at my dad impassively.

"You don't know?" he parrots, sounding incredulous.

"Yup."

Despite my age, I'm still grounded for the weekend. My foot hurts from kicking that phone, but my heart hurts worse when I have to walk passed my mom crying over it on the hardwood floor. It doesn't matter either way because that fucking thing is back on the coffee table by the end of the week.

I feel like I'm going crazy.

All I hear anymore in my free time is that phone, ringing incessantly. How I ever managed to appease Arthur's clinginess before is beyond me.

He calls every morning and every night; any waking second that phone is ringing. So I spend most of my time out of the house. It's where I feel the most relaxed – but even that isn't good enough anymore. My friends tell me I look stressed and I don't joke as much as I used to.

I don't argue with them because it's true. I still know I have to go back there every night and hear that chiming, these distant pangs of Arthur's crying sending waves of guilt crashing into me.

But I just take Matt's advice and keep ignoring it.

Everything goes away when you ignore it.

Until one night when I wake up from another nightmare. I never used to get nightmares before, but now I get them almost every night. Most of them just consist of that phone, but recently a lot of them are of Arthur crying. Something in my chest twists when I hear that sound. I've never heard anyone sound so pained when they cried.

I open my eyes, my fingers knotting in the blankets. I shift slowly, still groggy from the abrupt rise into consciousness, peering at the clock. The large numbers read 3:34 AM. I flop back down against my pillows and throw my arm over my sweaty forehead.

Not this again.

I only get a minute or so to lay there in the darkness, only little wisps of moonlight tethering in like strings coming through my blinds, when something registers with me that I didn't pick up on at first. When I realize what the sound is, I go rigid.

The sound of Arthur's crying can be heard, but I'm awake.

I pinch myself hard enough to leave a stinging red mark on my arm, but I'm not dreaming.

It feels like one of those moments – this is what those women must feel like when they're home alone and someone breaks in. I break out in a cold sweat and my heartbeat starts up so fast that I feel dizzy.

I think to myself that I should just put the covers over my head and go back to sleep, but that idea loses all appeal when the sniffling at the foot of my bed shifts. It's like something's there and it just noticed that I'm awake.

This is bullshit, Alfred. There is no one there. Arthur lives in another country, or at least too far to get here. You're being ridiculous. Grow some balls, you big baby, my mind chants at me. It's true. I embrace logic as my friend and sit up abruptly with my newfound burst of courage.

It withers when my eyes adjust and I note a distinct shape crouched in the corner of my room by the wall.

Oh, Jesus Christ. My hands start to shake and I reach under my bed to pull out the maglight I keep there in case of power outages. The metal is slippery in my clammy hands, and my breathing is becoming erratic. I struggle to stay upright, understanding that when I hit the power button, there's no going back.

Where I get the strength the turn the flashlight on is beyond me. My eyes are blinded briefly as I hold it under my chin. The outline of my room becomes visible through the dark fog that is the dead of night. I look over to the corner and see what is clearly a person crouched with their back to me.

I go stiff.

I want to say it's a burglar. I desperately try to convince myself that that's what's happening. It really is more appealing than what I'm looking at. The figure is trembling and sniffling when I slowly – glacially – point the stream of light at it.

They're small, dressed in dark slacks and a vest of some kind. The figure has disheveled hair, but as far as I can tell it still looks human.

What else could it be? My mind spits at me.

I continue to watch this person cry in the corner, running their sleeve across their face and hiccupping. It takes me a minute to thaw before I try speaking, my own voice cracking in uncertainty. "A-Arthur?"

The body stills, quieting. My breath catches in my throat as I wait. The clocks ticks 3:42 AM.

"Arthur . . . is that you?" I try again, hoping I sound nonchalant. When I untangle my limbs from my blankets, I shift forward. I can see his shoulders tense. "Arthur, it's OK," I lie. My hands are shaking; I can see it in the trembling way the stream of light flickers. "There's no reason to be scared," I say, moving closer.

Immediately he moves from the flashlight's beam and I fall back with a gasp, scrambling to shoot the light around the room.

"What the fuck – oh, shit. What the fuck," I vaguely note I'm rambling, my exhales coming out in quick pants. He's fast. He's too fast. That didn't look natural he was too quick and long and where the fuck is he I can't find him –

"Arthur, this isn't funny." I sound pathetic and terrified even to my own ears. The crying picks up and I sling the flashlight around like a sword, my eyes straining to find any form of a person in my room. It's then that I notice with a sense of utter numbness that my closet door is cracked.

I hear a soft lullaby under the quivering sobs. It sends chills down my spine. I focus the light on the dark strip between my two closet doors, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Arthur, are you in there?"

The morbid tune halts, leaving the only sound to be my ragged breathing and blood rushing in my ears. I consider for a second that I'm alone with how long the silence drags on, until I see long, pale fingers creep from the crack between the doors.

The flashlight takes this moment to go out on me.

I'm out of my bed instantly, charging for where I know my bedroom door to be in this blackness. Adrenaline pushes me to open the lock and stumble out, but I lose my footing and feel air whooshing passed my face.

I fall down the staircase and don't remember a thing after that.

Matt tells me he woke up to my screaming that night. Funny, because I don't remember hearing myself scream throughout the whole ordeal. All I can hear is that haunting melody in my head, littered with hiccups and sniffles.

He says that he freaked out when he saw me at the bottom of the staircase and called our parents. I spent the night at the hospital to make sure that I didn't have a major concussion. They kept an eye on me, but said I was free to leave when the sun started to rise.

I've been curled up on the couch under a blanket ever since.

"Al, what is going on with you?" my brother asks, his tone weary and concerned. I'm jumpy, my eyes never staying in one place for too long. When I feel something touch my shoulder, I twist and fend it off with my baseball bat I pull out from my comforter. Matt withdraws his hand and stares at me in horror.

"It's just me," he gasps, moving away from me. I slowly nod, trying to relax with this knowledge. The first thing I did when I got home was open all the doors and unhook all the phones. My parents only exchanged concerned looks before Matt said he'd handle it and gestured me out into the living room.

"God, Alfred, you're scaring me," he admits.

"That makes two of us," I say, managing a crumpled laugh. My fingers flex over the bat in my hands, a dull throb of pain in my head from the fall last night.

"Is it Arthur again?" he inquires after a lengthy beat. I go rigid. Cautiously this time, he reaches out and puts his hand against my knee. I gawk at him desperately.

"He was in my room last night, Mattie," I whisper conspiratorially. I lean in close and realize I must look like a lunatic with gauze wrapped around my head and wide, bloodshot eyes. The baseball bat doesn't help my case, either. "In my closet. You were right. Ohh, so fucking right. Every time I picked up the phone I had no idea what I was doing. But it let him in – Jesus, Matt, that doesn't even make sense! How could he get in my room?"

Matthew stares at me, face drawn out in disturbed wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. I don't know if he's nervous about what I'm telling him or the way I'm telling him. I know I don't look like the picture of a properly functioning individual anymore.

I don't go to work. I have virtually no contact with my friends. My school work sucks.

I'm not Alfred.

"What happened?" he asks quietly.

I snort derisively and start to babble about the fight we had. About the way I told Arthur to go away. The way he looked so small curled in the corner of my room, but when he moved it was like he stretched. He was lanky and those fingers were so pale and thin when they curled out from the closet door and I was about to piss myself just recalling it.

"Do me a favor and just throw the phone away," I plead, my eyes stinging. If it's from frustration or lack of sleep, I don't know. I don't really care. I just can't stand that phone anymore. I can't stand Arthur.

"Mom would be angry," Matt replies, like I give a damn about that anymore.

"We'll buy her a new phone. One that actually works like a telephone should. Matt, I'm desperate here. Help me out." I reach for him, ignoring the way he jumps when my hands come to land on his shoulders. He doesn't hold my gaze and a bead of sweat rolls down his temple.

I find no solace in the fact that I just lost the only person who was the closest to believing me.

I lean away from him, frowning when Matthew takes this moment to look at me. "Fine. I'll do it myself, then. Who needs you."

"Alfred," Matt beseeches as I get up from the couch. His voice has that whiny pitch whenever he's nervous. I merely take my baseball bat into the foyer, intent on snatching up the black phone. I turn my head and jolt when I glance briefly at the mirror and see a face in the open closet. A flash of fair skin and sunken eyes has me spinning on my heels, but the closet is empty, save for some jackets hanging up.

I fist my fingers in my hair, an overwhelmed, animalistic noise clogging at the back of my throat. Matt emerges from the living room, expression soaked with worry.

"Alfred?"

"I think I need to lay down," I mutter, hating this paranoid, antsy person I've become. He sidles beside me and gently leads me back to the couch.

Matt doesn't leave my side until I fall asleep; that's the only silver lining of the day.

I hold true to my threat and I beat the ever loving bejesus out of that phone. I take it out into the backyard one afternoon when my brother is at school and my parents are at work. They allow me to take as many sick days as I felt were acceptable from a fall down the staircase.

Not that I wouldn't have ditched school anyway, regardless. But their approval just makes it easier.

My grandmother's phone is a pile of broken trash on the lawn before it's even time for lunch. I feel the moment when a large wave of relief passes over me. My life has become this object and who lies on the other side. Now that it's gone, I want to cry.

But good tears.

I sneak it to my neighbor's garbage bins, just to be sure, and then go inside for lunch. I take a shower and watch some T.V. and take another nap. I wake up when I hear the front door close and my mom's heels on the wood. The sound of her voice talking with my brother rouses me and I sit up, stretching.

She walks into the kitchen and rummages around. Matthew peeks his head into the living room, spotting me instantly amongst the couch cushions. He tries for a smile.

"How're you feeling today?"

I grin at him so wide I have to squint to accommodate it. The look of surprise on his face is worth the wait. "You know, if you'd'a asked me that a week ago I probably would've peed my pants like a baby Chihuahua. But I feel great. Honestly, bro. Hand to God."

I can see my brother trying to mentally work this sudden change in appearance out in his head, but he gives up halfway through and just rolls with it.

"That's great, Alfred. I'm glad."

I beam at him and pull my sweatshirt's hood strings down. Matthew meanders around the couch and sits down in the ottoman, untying his shoes. "It's nice to see you've taken your mind off of Arthur."

"Who?" I joke. Matt smiles and shakes his head.

"You know, I turned that phone forward and backward, and I still can't figure out how it was working. I've never heard it before, but when you said it did I was curious."

I run my fingers lightly over the gauze on my forehead, grimacing a little when I feel the bruise around the gash flare up. "Yeah, well. That's all behind me now that it's gone."

Matt pauses on his second shoe, peering up at me beneath the wavy strands of his hair. "Now that what's gone?"

Something about the hesitant way he speaks made the hairs on my arms stand up and my stomach flop. I stare at him for a while before springing up from the couch and briskly walking into the foyer. I can hear his words of confusion but I don't register what they mean when I stop dead in my tracks.

There, sitting perfect and polished, is the black phone on the table. It's like it was never broken to begin with.

I stand still, feeling numb; feeling like the floor is caving beneath my feet. Matt begins to wave his hand in my face, chewing on his lower lip when I don't respond.

My knees give out and I drop to the floor, shaking my head in disbelief. Matt scrambles backward and goes to get my mom when I dig my fingers into my hair roughly, upsetting my bandage and starting to bleed.

I don't know if I'm going crazy.

I don't if obsessing over something – anything – can make a person crazy, regardless of subject matter.

The only thing I do know as I sit crumpled by the hall closet, the sensation of a hand creeping out and covering mine against the hardwood floor, is that I don't think Arthur is going anywhere. I waited too long and let him get too comfortable to kick him out now.

The breathy chuckles coming from the closet are enough proof for me.