return to the bathroom with a bottle of whiskey; I had previously grabbed from my car; dental floss and a needle, all the things I need to stitch my arm back up. I slowly peel off the material around my arm, revealing a blood stained arm. In confusion, I search my arm using the mirror for assistance. Nothing. The wound had completely healed. I hadn't slept in ages, must of been an hallucination in the car and maybe it was just some loose blood. As I go to take off my underwear to get ready to have a shower my phone rings.
I pounce at my phone as quickly as I could. I rummage through my duffel bag trying to find my phone. My heart was racing and my face heats up. Dad? I push past weapons and bundles of clothing trying to search for my phone.
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However, I wasn't greeted with the out of service automated voice, but instead heard my father's voice "This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call 866-907-3235. He can help." A beep followed his voice and I hang up the phone immediately. I wasn't mentally prepared to leave a voicemail back.
So due to the voicemail it confirms that he is alive, but doesn't suggest he's safe. I was eager to ring up whoever my dad was speaking about, but something was pulling me back. I hesitate to pick up the phone and listen a second time to get the exact number.
I get inside the shower as I was overwhelmed. The water was able to momentarily get my mind off of my world and help me relax. I thoroughly washed my body attempting to clean my stained skin, most of it came off, but I still had a few spots. It didn't bother me anyway. I dry off and get changed into my pjs and slump down onto my bed. I stare at the alarm clock as red numbers flashed 10:27 back at me.
I look towards my phone as it lies just below my pillow, mockingly.
As my head comes into contact with the pillow, my eyes fall heavy and I reluctantly give in as I start to drift
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I gasp for air filling up my burning lungs. Breathing sharply, I become out of breathe and stare into the distance as black spots swirl around. My skin on fire and my hair clings to my face as sweat covers it. My body aches and my vision goes blurry. I try and stable myself by drooping my legs off the side of the bed. I put my shaky fingers through my mattered hair and push it behind my ears. All the 'dreams' were loosely based around the same concept. Various women were pinned to the ceiling surrounded by fire, their faces were blurred and unrecognisable. Each night was a different woman, due to the change of outfit, hair colour and setting. I wonder if I had seen my mother amongst the other women, as she died in the same way, killed by the same thing.
I push back the hair that managed to crawl back in front of my face. I look back at the bed and sees my phone innocently placed on the sheets. I reluctantly give in and grab a pen. I call my dad's number and wait for his voice in return "This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call 866-907-3235. He can help."
866-907-3235. I carve the numbers onto my hand with the pen I had grabbed. I punch most of the numbers in and stop before I could dial the last digit. Who was this person? My hands shake and press 5.
A familiar voice emerges from the speaker "This is Dean Winchester. If this is an emergency, leave a message. If you're calling about 11-2-83, please page me
A few seconds later the witch doctor answered the door as if he knew they were there,“Yes how do you require my assistance?” He asked.
Your vocal chords tightened, your breath hitches. The light of your cellphone is the only outlet that keeps you from being fully enveloped by the darkness. Aggressively, your heart thumps in your chest. The tremor in your entire body is violent as footsteps moved through the dark. They move closer and closer until they halt in front of the stall you had occupied. The moment you open your mouth to scream for help there is an abrupt, loud, bang. The force of the impact was strong enough to shake the walls of your stall. You squeak in terror, the surprise has you drop your phone. The device, still lit, slides under the opening of the door. Muddled as your thoughts were, you swiftly crouched down to reclaim it. Your fingers extended, nearly grazing
I run out the door and walk on the sidewalk like all is good and all is bright. I look for my next victim and settle my eyes on a house that lives a family that I know too well. I walk up on the front porch, hand in my pocket clutching my lucky prosthetic eye I stole, and gather my courage and knock on the door. The door opens, I plaster the fakest smile on my face and happily say, "Good morning, Mrs.
Everyone dials the wrong number at least one. But in the story “ sorry wrong number” by Lucille Fletcher one wrong number leads to a shocking and twisted end. The story takes place late one evening in New York. Mrs. Stevenson, the main character, is a frantic, demanding and an angry person that just happens to dial the wrong number.
"We're here" I hear a slightly gruff voice speak out as footsteps fall down the stairs. I stand up to greet the two men who are revealed from the stairway. I walk up to the shorter one and hold my hand out to him. He stood, leaning slightly to the taller man, as if he was ready to protect him if anything happened. He was dressed in a brown button up with a black shirt underneath, dark blue jeans and worn out steel toe boots. Gripping his hand I give a firm shake. "Dean Winchester." He states his name. "Dean Winchester. Has a brother named Sam Winchester, I'm guessing that's
Dennis Miller tells the story: “Out of parental concern and a desire to teach our young son responsibility, we require him to phone home when he arrives at his friend’s house, a few blocks away. He began to forget, however, as he grew more confident in his ability to get there without disaster befalling him. The first time he forgot, I called to be sure he had arrived. We told him the next time it happened, he would have to come home. A few days later, however, the telephone again lay silent, and I knew if he were ever going to learn he would have to be punished. But I did not want to punish him. I went to the telephone regretting that his great time would be spoiled by his lack of contact with his father.
My phone rang a toon known to me as the sound of my friend calling. I slumped out of my chair and dragged my lifeless feet to the table to get my phone. My hand grabbed the phone and answered regardless of my mind’s tricks. There was a second on silence before a cheerful voice spoke on the other
Billy nodded his head weakly and lay in the bed. The mattress squeaked under pressure of his body.
"Get me the police". Prior to the rotary dial many people all over the country had to wait for operator assistance when placing a phone call. Creating an emergency number was a sufficient way of connecting to an emergency personnel’s. Before the emergency number was established the caller dependency for an emergency contact was the operator. The caller would have to wait for assistance and then tell the operator the number of whom they wish to be connected to. In case of emergency the caller could simply reply with the emergency service name and get help. In 1967, the President's Commission on Law Enforcement and Administration of Justice suggested that a "particular number be established" generally for exposure of emergency situations. As a result of the colossal attention in this concern the President's Commission on Civil Disorders turned to the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) for a clarification. In November of 1967 FCC met with the American Telephone and Telegraph Company (AT&T) to find a way of establishing a universal emergency number that may possibly be implemented promptly. Later congress passed a law identifying 9-1-1 to be the standard emergency contact number for the United States of America. By the end of the 20th century nearly 93% of the U.S was covered with some type of 9-1-1 service. So, whenever there are an emergency occurring citizen’ young and old have access to the universal emergency number. This is a telephone number to be used for immediate access to help and assistance when an accident or serious problem occurs. Children can be taught to dial 9-1-1 when life and/or property are in immediate danger. In addition to, being in danger it defeats the purpose of having an emergency number.
“Ring . . . Ring” screamed the phone. “Damn who could that be . . . its
“Your brother Paul is dead. Don’t be coming to the funeral, you were not invited”, he muttered. That was all he said before he hung up.
After I got the numbers, I started to methodically call one number after another. Sometimes I reached an inactive number, but for the most part, the number I dialed reached an active beeper. When I did, I left my victims phone number. At least a hundred people called him, wanting to know why he called them. So many messages were left on his answering machine that he didn't bother to listen to it any more when he came home from work. Another way I gained revenge was more destructive and costly to the person involved.
My father then recorded his message. I was in so much shock and horror that I
I pass the bathroom seeing my dad and some half naked chick, who looks like a prostitute, passed out. “Lovely”, I said to myself closing the door. I continue my endless walk down the long spiral stairs meeting the kitchen. In the kitchen I see the naked ladies jacket… If she resembles a prostitute then she most likely is. My dad has always had a thing for those type women. I can't help myself but to look in the pockets. In her pockets I find a good amount of cocaine and some cash. I took it. Judging by the way she looks, It is safe to say she wouldn't
Stop calling me. Call your victim and ask why he is calling you. They will surely answe o and they will insist that they are not calling you. Keep clling them and threat them to stop calling you or you will call a police.