The online journal of Canadian Speculative Fiction writer Karina Sumner-Smith
Not a Morning Person
The phone went at this morning. I was most definitely asleep. Somehow, I usually tend to find myself up and stumbling for the phone before my brain has yet comprehended that there is something going on; but this time I found myself staring at the ceiling in confusion first. Noise. There is a noise. It is loud. What is this noise? Stop, noise. Stop it!
I have answered enough bizarre phone calls for Carly at odd hours that I almost didn't get up at all, but no, the last phone call I received at was Sarah needing me to drive her to the hospital, so ... I get up, I stumble, I answer the phone only to hear ... damn, I don't know what I hear. I am confused. It is a man, either drunk or half-asleep or something, asking for someone, but damn if I can understand him. I finally shout, "I can't hear you!!" in frustration, and he hangs up. But the combination of being woken up when I was absolutely dead asleep, the strange voice at the end of the phone and the almost-nightmares I'd been having while asleep had left me rattled, and it took some puttering about the house before I felt comfortable going back to bed.
11 AM, the phone rings again. I am, again, dead asleep (have I mentioned that I've been slightly exhausted of late?). Again, I stumble to the phone only to have a nice old lady ask me if Olive is there. Sadly for her, the answer was no -- which is when my brain suddenly re-interpreted the morning phone call, substituting "old" for "drunk," and "Olive" for "Murmuf!!" and suddenly my scary phone call made more sense. Slightly.