When Mercy Calls

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If your phone rings tonight with an unknown number you will have to pick it up, because it may be Mercy Ellis on the other line. You may not like what she tells you, but you have no choice.

 

Danyelle (aka D.M. Slate) resides in Colorado, where she’s lived for most of her life. She attended college at the University of Northern Colorado completing a business degree, and now works as a financial analyst.  Danyelle is married to her high school sweet-heart and together they have a young daughter and son.

D.M. Slate’s first sci-fi horror novella was released in 2009 and was voted best Sci-Fi Horror story of the year by two independent review groups.  Her first mystery-horror novel was released in 2010, followed by a second paranormal-horror novel in 2012.  A steady stream of dark fiction short stories have been released since 2009.

In 2014 D.M. Slate won the Wicked Woman Writer’s Challenge hosted by HorrorAddicts.net with her audio story Photo Finish.  Her film Don’t Play With Your Dinner was an Official Selection in the Colorado Creative Short Film Contest in 2014 at the Mile High Horror Film Festival.  This short movie marks Slate’s debut into film directing and producing.

 

When Mercy Calls  

By D.M. Slate

The entire town looks at me with terror in its eyes.  I stopped leaving my house, long ago.  The only connections that I have to the outside world are the lace-covered windows in my tiny one bedroom home, a phone, and a timid cousin who comes to visit once per week.

I watch the town from my hidden sanctuary, observing each and every individual in the small community.  Children often gather on the sidewalk out front, pointing and staring at my house.  I hear their taunting rhymes, and I often catch bits and pieces of their whispered conversations.

My name is Mercy Ellis, and I’ve always been strange.  Since the first audible words left my tiny, innocent mouth – I’ve been looked at as an abomination.

Unexplainable actions often garner mass fear in society… a lesson that I would become all too familiar with, over my lifetime.

**When I Was Three**

My mother had known, for a while, that I was a rare child with an unexplainable ability.  She, alone, was the bearer of this information…until I was three-years-old.

One day, on a visit to the bank with my grandmother, the visions came upon me.  As the elderly bank teller reached down, handing me a sucker, I saw the horrible sight very plainly before my eyes.  The woman’s silver head of hair was lying on the carpet, saturated in her own crimson blood.  Even as a toddler, I knew what this meant.

As I accepted the sucker, I told the woman matter-of-factly, “You’re going to hit your head, and die.”

My grandma’s intake of breath was so sharp that it cut through the awkward silence.  The bank teller’s eyes grew wide and she tried to laugh casually, brushing the comment aside.  My grandmother apologized profusely before digging her fingernails into my arm and dragging me out of the bank, sobbing.

Once home, she and my mother had a heated conversation.  Grandma left the house without saying goodbye to me.

Two days later, my grandmother returned.  The look in her eye was different now.  She didn’t rush in to get hugs and kisses from me, and instead, she stood far across the room – staring, as if she were frightened.  Dropping a folded newspaper onto the table, she instructed my mother to read.

Mom’s hands trembled as she picked up the newspaper and read the obituary aloud.

Norma Jones, age 72, passed away on Tuesday evening after suffering a fall in her home.

**When I Was Five**

By the time I was five, I fully understood that I was different.  My mother had cautioned me that speaking about my visions to “outsiders” was dangerous.  I couldn’t understand why, at the time, but I did my best to obey her wishes.  Over time, we stopped talking about my visions, altogether – as if they didn’t exist.

I remember this particular night very clearly.  It was the first time that I ever felt the burn.  We were at home, getting ready for bed.  I’d just taken a bath and I was in my room, putting on my pajamas.  The vision came to me.  I was shocked and saddened to see someone that I knew coming to his demise.  My first instinct was to run and tell my mother.  But at the same time I didn’t want to upset her.  I knew how she hated my horrible gift.

I’d gone to bed early that night, carrying with me the heavy burden on my soul.  I had an internal need to go next door and tell our neighbor, Harry, that this would be his last night on earth.  But my mom had warned me to never speak of these things again, and I wanted so badly to please her.

Tormented, I’d tossed and turned for over an hour, staring out my bedroom window at Harry’s house.  A prickly, tingling sensation began to spread throughout my body – until small electric jolts began to jerk my muscles into motion.  Terrified, I sat up in bed as my body convulsed to and fro.  My flesh was searing, and my heart raced a million miles per hour.  I opened my mouth to scream for help but as my breath exited my lips, it caught fire, shooting a flame out into the darkness.

Smoke began to pour from my skin and the tips of my fingers actually caught fire.  The agony of the burn was unbearable.

Bellowing in horror, my mother raced in from the next room.  She snatched me off of my bed and sprinted to the bathroom.  She dumped me into the empty tub with a thud, cranked on the cold water, and sprayed me down with the showerhead.  Sobbing and scared, I panted, trying to catch my breath under the heavy stream of water.  Crying out in fear, I had to tell my mother about the horrible vision.  I knew, somehow, that it was connected to the burn.

After many incessant demands, my mother agreed to go next door and check on Harry.  She was already too late.

**When I Was Eight**

The phone calls began at age eight.  After several more instances of internal ignition, both my mother and I accepted the fact that the burn was directly related to my visions.  For some reason, if I didn’t tell the person about the fate that I’d seen in my vision, my body physically paid the price.

I awoke one snowy morning with a start.  Jumping up from my bed, I screamed, sprinting for my mother’s bedroom.  Although I’d been deep asleep, I knew what I’d seen hadn’t been a dream.  The feeling of it was different.  Shaking her violently awake, the details of the vision came cascading off of my tongue.

Panicked, tears streamed down my cheeks as I spoke.  I knew that there was too much snow outside.  Our tiny car would never make it out to the Henderson farm in time.  I saw the flash of terror on her face as the horrible fact sank into mother’s brain, as well.

A slight tingle began to spread underneath of my skin and I cried out, pleading for help, “Mommy, don’t let me burn to death!  Please – do something!”

My frantic screech prompted her feet into quick, erratic motion.  She sprinted to the living room, dragging me by my arm down the hall behind her – where she stopped in front of our phone.  Snatching the receiver in one stealthy movement, she punched the numbers on the hand piece.

The heat underneath of my skin was increasing, almost to the point of smoldering.  Mother thrust the phone into my hands.  I pressed the receiver against my ear, listening to the repetitive ringing on the other end.

A gruff voice answered, and my stomach trembled.  Timidly, I responded, “Um, yeah.  This is Mercy Ellis.  I’m calling to tell you that I saw what happens in the closet.  You don’t have to do that.”  Immediately, my flesh began to cool.

The phone line went dead at that point, as Mr. Henderson hung up on me.  They found his body the next day, hanging from a belt, inside of his closet.

**When I Was Thirteen**

My early teenage years were the hardest to deal with.  That was the point in my life where I was forced to look internally, and accept myself for what I am – an abnormality of society.  After the failed attempts at keeping my visions to myself, my body had physically been affected by the spontaneous combustions.  Large sections of my skin were now covered in random burn scars, and patches of my once beautiful hair refused to regrow after being singed at the root.

Mother still insisted that I go to school, despite the constant teasing from all of my classmates.  I detested that awful, dreadful place.  Even my teachers couldn’t hide the horror in their eyes when they looked at me.  It was the worst feeling, ever.

Through all of the turmoil, I’d managed to make one singular friend.  Well, she was really more of an acquaintance, but that was the best that I could manage.  Sarah Winder had started speaking to me in grade school, and as a teenager, she did her best to remain polite with her words.  Although we’d never played together, or been to one-another’s house, or even really carried on a real conversation – she was the only person at school who I actually liked.

I was already seated in the lunchroom, alone, at the furthest table in the back of the room – when Sarah strolled into the cafeteria.  A large wave of students rushed into the room around her, forming a chaotic line at the serving counter.

My lunch sat dismally before me on the table, untouched.  I poked at the bland meal with my fork, trying to remain small and hidden from my classmate’s view.  Generally, they would just ignore me – as if I wasn’t even there.

A cold sweat broke out upon my brow and I knew that a vision was coming.  Bracing myself, I closed my eyes and held firmly onto the edge of the table.  It washed over me in a rush, and then, it was gone.  I felt my stomach form into a solid knot.  Sarah Winder was going to die.

Nervousness spread throughout my body.  I’d never been forced to tell someone, in a public setting, what I’d seen… But I knew that if I didn’t confess, I’d burn to death in front of the people I despised the most.

It was at that exact moment in time, I decided to intervene with fate.

Jumping up from my chair I sprinted across the lunchroom.  Sarah had just taken her seat, and she was reaching for her hamburger…that fateful piece of meat that would become lodged deep inside of her throat, choking her.  Driven on by fear and adrenaline alike, I jumped, soaring through the air.  My upper torso landed on the table with a thud and I bounced, before sliding down the length of the long cafeteria table.  My outstretched hands sent trays of food crashing to the floor in all directions – Sarah’s included.  I exhaled with a sigh of relief as her hamburger plopped onto the ground, untouched.

Startled by the calamity, Principal Higgins spun on his heel, turning to see what had caused the horrendous commotion.  The heel of his dress-shoe slipped in the splattered ketchup, and he tumbled head-over-heels onto the linoleum.  The back of his skull smacked the floor with a sickening crunch.

I never returned to school after that.

Principal Higgins was buried two days later.  On her way to his funeral, Sarah Winder was struck by an oncoming car, killing her instantly.

From it all, I learned that I was powerless to change fate.

**When I Was Eighteen**

For nearly five years I remained at home with mother, only having contact with “others” when I’d make my unpleasant phone calls.  It was during those years that the rumors began to run rampant within our community – it was the birth of my myth, if you will.

Lack of understating, or the will to understand my situation – was the root of the ugly problem.  No one cared that I had to make these phone calls, in order to save my own life.  All that they saw was a trend of phone calls coming from me, and then death to the recipient afterwards.  To them, I was a witch – with the ability to curse, and kill, simply by making a phone call.  Every time a phone rang – the community would shiver in fear, hoping it wasn’t Mercy Ellis on the other end.

I tried to live as “normally” as I could, spending most of my time with my nose stuck inside of a book.  Time passed, and I accepted my life for what it was.

It was on the eve of my nineteenth birthday that my entire world changed.  Mom had gone to bed early, with a horrible headache.  I’d stayed up watching TV.  In the middle of the show my sight began to blur, and then everything faded to black.

I had a vision of my mother…

I’d gone timidly into her room then, with tears streaming down my cheeks.  She appeared just as she had, in my vision.  Kneeling down, I’d taken her hand into mine – kissing it lightly.  I sobbed as I spoke to her, telling her that it was her time go, and thanking her for taking such great care of me.

I doubt she heard me.  The aneurism had already burst inside of her cranium.

I sat there, holding her hand, until she breathed her final breath.

I never left the house, again.

**Now**

The entire town looks at me with terror in its eyes.  I stopped leaving my house, long ago.  The only connections that I have to the outside world are the lace-covered windows in my tiny one bedroom home, a phone, and a timid cousin who comes to visit once per week.

I watch the town from my hidden sanctuary, observing each and every individual in the small community.  Children often gather on the sidewalk out front, pointing and staring at my house.  I hear their taunting rhymes, and I often catch bits and pieces of their whispered conversations.

My name is Mercy Ellis, and I’ve always been strange.  Since the first audible words left my tiny, innocent mouth – I’ve been looked at as an abomination.

Unexplainable actions often garner mass fear in society…a lesson that I would become all too familiar with, over my lifetime.