The phone lay on the lighthouse steps, wrapped in a ribbon of seaweed. It was an old black handset, the kind that belonged on a kitchen wall, though no cord trailed from it.
It rang as Mara bent to pick it up. It rang as she carried it inside. She set it on the table, covered it with a dishcloth, and made tea. Still it rang, each shrill burst making the cups tremble.
There was no signal on the island. There hadn’t been a telephone line since the storm of ’86.
At last, Mara lifted the receiver.
She heard the slow scrape of breathing, then a woman’s voice, soft and urgent.
“Whatever you do, don’t answer it.”
The line went dead. Mara stood with the receiver pressed to her ear.
Then, from beneath the dishcloth, the phone began to ring again.