Is Anyone Out There?

By T.W. Crone

The boy knocked on the apartment door in the dirty hallway. He wore an orange elementary school hoodie with an owl face on the front. The owl had glasses, which made it look intelligent. He ran his hand through his hair, looked at the peephole, and smiled as slippered feet shuffled inside.

“What do you want?” a gruff voice from an older lady said through the door.

“Is Jasmine home?” the boy said.

The floor creaked as someone shifted on the other side.

“No.”

The boy’s smile faded. “When will she be home?”

More shifting. “She moved away.”

The boy frowned. His eyes drifted to the floor.

“Now, beat it, kid!”

The boy turned, stepped to the wall across from the door, and slid down to a sitting position on the rough flooring. Soft sobs drifted up from his downturned face.

An audible sigh emanated from the door. It opened. A large older lady wearing pink furry slippers, a long cotton nightgown with a floral design, and curlers stood in the doorway. Bright red lips protruded from a pitted face. Weary eyes looked down at the boy.

“Why are you so set on meeting, Jasmine?” she said, and before the boy could respond, “And how did you find this place anyway?”

The boy wiped his eyes, leaned against the wall, and placed his elbow on a raised knee. “I’m good with computers.” He dried his wet nose on his sleeve. “But she should be more careful.”

The lady scowled. “I’ll tell her.”

“So, do you know where she lives now?” the boy said, climbing to his feet and adjusting his backpack.

The lady rolled her eyes and made room in the doorway. “Come on in, kid.”

The boy hesitated. He considered the lady again, shrugged, and walked past her into the entryway. A curtain of beads hung a few feet ahead of him. The place smelled like his friend’s house, whose mom was from the Philippines.

“Let’s go, kid. I gotta get back to work,” she said, nudging him forward. He pushed through and found a cramped living room with oriental rugs on the floor and walls. The lady hobbled around him to sit in an oversized chair covered in a knit blanket. An ornate lamp with a stained glass shade glowed on a small table next to the chair. She pointed to a pea-green couch covered in plastic. “Have a seat.” He did as instructed with a squeak.

He looked around the room with wide, innocent eyes, not speaking and paying no heed to the woman sitting across from him.

“How old are you anyway?” she said.

“Eight,” he said, admiring the details in one of the wall coverings.

“Now, why would you go to all the effort to find Jasmine?”

He looked at her with a concerned face. “She sounded lonely.”

The woman adjusted in her seat. “A lot of people are lonely, kid. It’s just the nature of things.”

His mouth screwed up, eyes squinted. “Your voice sounds like hers. Are you her mom?”

The woman smiled. “I guess so.”

“Is she still lonely?” he asked with more interest.

The woman placed her hand to her mouth and stared into the boy’s eager eyes. “Not anymore. She found someone that made her feel special.”

The boy’s face lit up. “That’s great!” He sprung to his feet with another squeak from the couch. “I guess I won’t have to call her anymore then.”

The woman chuckled. “No, you won’t.”

The boy adjusted his backpack. “My parents were pretty mad when they saw the phone bill.”

The woman chuckled again. “I bet they were.”

 The boy headed up to the wall of beads, turned, and looked back at the woman. “Tell her I’m glad she’s happy.”

“I will.”

“Bye!”

The boy pushed through the beads. 

The door opened. 

The door closed. 

The boy had left, but the warmth remained.

T.W. Crone (he/him) is an Army Ranger combat veteran who works as a software developer in North Carolina. In Spring 2023, he was bitten by the writing bug while taking a course with the Redbud Writing Project. He found an affinity for creepy alien and supernatural stories. He spends his free time playing RPGs, reading everything, and working on his craft. He has stories pending or published with Sci-Fi Shorts, Blood Moon Rising Magazine, and Horror Sleaze Trash.