She was running, running as fast as she could, running for her life. Cold
sweat pasted her clothes to her, her feet screamed in painful protest from contact with the concrete of the street,
and her hair flew behind her from the speed of her flight. Her throat made
ragged choking sounds as she pulled in air, but she somehow managed to hitch in
enough breath to scream. Oh, yes, she was screaming, screaming from the bottom
of her soul-surely there had never been such screams before in this quiet city
street-but she was sure no one could hear her desperate shrieks. Sometimes she
couldn't hear them herself; the ringing of the telephone dominated everything,
drowned out every other sound.
Her house loomed up ahead, near
and yet impossibly far away. The sight of its familiar outline sent a rush of
hope through her, however, and she did what she would have sworn couldn't be
done just a few seconds before; she ran even faster. She was holding nothing
back now, had no breath to spare for unheard screams, her muscles working so
frantically there was no time for pain. One of her faded canvas tennis shoes,
which had worked itself untied, now fell completely off. She didn't slow down,
really didn't even notice. Her attention was fixed on the form of her house,
growing steadily larger ahead. She finally reached the front porch-thank God,
her house, she should be safe here. But no-wait-there was another scrawled note
taped to her door, and the telephone started ringing....
With a gasp of horror and shock,
she turned so quickly her remaining sneaker squealed, and raced towards her
driveway. She knew she hadn't much time, but she refused to think about that.
Her only thought was of the car, of reaching her car, of driving far away and
never returning again, never, ever again....
She stopped short ten paces away
from the car, jamming her hands over her mouth to keep herself from screaming
again. There were pictures of her stuffed under the windshield wipers, and
jammed in the rolled-up windows, and taped all over the car; pictures of her
getting into her car in the morning, pictures of her grocery shopping, pictures
of her practicing her violin, pictures of her talking on the telephone....
She began backing away from
the car, shaking her head unconsciously in futile denial, surrounded by the
indomitable and painfully loud ringing of the telephone. She covered her ears
against the sound-and encountered an object behind her. She tried to scream but
only produced a sort of hoarse moan as arms closed around her from behind, one
around her waist and one around her throat. She heard a low, chilling laugh in
her ear as she faded from consciousness, and knew that she had run out of time.
And the telephone rang....
Chrispen shot bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed and shivering. Her heart was
slamming in her chest and she was covered with the cold uncomfortable sweat that
only adrenaline can produce. Every blanket on the bed had been kicked off onto
the floor. She stared frantically around the darkened room, searching for the
unseen intruder, and then gave a sigh heavy with relief. It had only been a
nightmare. She fell back against the pillows and breathed deeply, consciously
trying to calm herself. Sheer relief overwhelmed her, and she had the insane
impulse to laugh. It had only been a nightmare. Only a-
Oh, God.
The telephone was ringing.
Chrispen cringed, curled up in a
defensive fetal ball in the far corner of her bed, with a pillow clutched over
her head like a child in fear of punishment... but still she could hear the
ringing.... ringing....
Ringing....
The first thing to meet the gaze
of anyone entering the house was a three-foot tall sculpture of Michael Crawford
as the Phantom of the Opera.
The house was small, but well
furnished. The walls were decorated heavily with posters: Vladimir Spivakov,
conductor of the Moscow Virtuosi; Julie Andrews in "The Sound of
Music"; British violinist Nigel Kennedy with the London Philharmonic; Isaac
Stern in concert; "The Phantom of the Opera"; concert violinist Alexis
Brooks....
There was surprisingly little
furniture in the house, but it was attractive to the eye and very comfortable. A
piano sat along one wall, beside a stereo system.
Chrispen Marnett had bought this
house, and meticulously decorated it to her exact specifications.
It disturbed her greatly that she
no longer felt at all safe there.
Chrispen Marnett seems to have everything she wants; a nice home, a coveted position with
the National Philharmonic Orchestra, good friends. Lately bizarre things have threatened all that; an elusive stalker torments her just outside the reach of the law, and her friends have become very strange. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the nightmares from reality anymore. Somewhere in the shared past of the Philharmonic and its members lies the answer she needs to find to stop the terror and put her life back together, buried in the legacy of a dead woman who ties them all together....like the voices in a concerto...
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