“District attorney’s office; this is Jordan.” Jordan Anderson twirled her mechanical pencil between her thumb and forefinger and tapped the eraser impatiently against the desk. It was Friday night, only five more minutes until quitting time, and she really didn’t want to take another call.
“Is this Jordan Anderson?”
She rolled her eyes. Being that the call had been put through on her private line, and she had just given the caller her first name, who else could it be? “Yes, it is. How may I help you?”
The voice on the other end of the phone dropped to an eerie, demented purr. “Do you know what happens to witches in Salem, Jordan?”
Jordan held the phone away from her ear and stared blankly at the receiver. She cleared her throat and pressed it back to her lobe. “Uh, no, I don’t. And since this happens to be Denver—and the twenty-first century—I can’t say that I’m really interested.” She was just about to hang up, perhaps deliver a few choice words to her secretary for putting the call through, when something made her pause: All day long she’d had the oddest, sinking feeling in her stomach, like something major in her life was about to change, like the axis she had always stood upon was about to shift beneath her feet, and she had no idea where the feeling was coming from. Perhaps this call was somehow related; the vibe was oddly the same.
When the caller began to chuckle in a crass, deranged chortle, she shivered. “Well, you’re about to find out,” he said.
“Who is this?” Jordan demanded.
He whistled the introductory tune to The Twilight Zone in the receiver. “It’s your death calling.”