Rick's Last Phone Call

Rick was sitting at his computer finishing off a bottle of vodka.  The clock read 9:23 PM and the there were candy and food wrappers strewn around burnt CD's in the dimly lit bedroom.  His cell phone lied there stationary, nobody usually called him.  He was nodding off, the surroundings around him starting to blur.  A relative's portrait stared back at him, she had an alien stare.

Rick picked up one of the CD's and threw it sloppily towards the kitchen to see if the dog would pick it up.  He kept forgetting he didn't have a dog anymore.  He looked at the mess around him, before being startled by the vibrations on the antique desk.

Rick didn't know the number.  But he didn't care so much tonight, and he decided to pick up the phone.  "Hello?"

There was an ethereal, scratchy whisper on the other end, "You will die tonight."

"What?" Rick said, wondering if he had heard the voice correctly.

The person on the other end hung up.

Rick tried to call the number back but it just kept ringing.  Then, suddenly, the lights to his apartment shattered.  And there was pitch black darkness, and there was quiet, apart from this scratching sound coming from the front door.  Like a knife or claws dragging frantically across the painted metal.

Rick hastily opened up the desk cabinet and took out a six-shot revolver, and started loading bullets into the gun.

"I'll be damned." He said.

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