Chapter Text
God, Ranboo hated Thursdays.
Thursdays… they were like a taunt by the school system. The day that felt like Friday, the day that teachers relaxed on homework, only to allow students more time to finish the essays assigned on Monday. And, as the best friend of a boy who hardly touched his homework, Ranboo had double the essays to finish before Friday.
Now, Ranboo understood that Tubbo struggled to make out the fine print on the page, and he didn’t mind doing Tubbo’s history and LA-oriented assignments for him, and Tubbo helped him out in math and science in return. But today, Tubbo had been acting pretty off… and then, during the car ride home, Tubbo had unearthed an archaic dial phone made of assaultingly bright red plastic, practically begging Ranboo to hold onto it for the night. Mostly out of confusion, Ranboo had agreed, taking the phone from Tubbo’s hands and stuffing it into their own backpack.
And now, Ranboo glanced up from their history homework as an incessant ringing filled the air. Glancing to the kitchen island, he sighed as his eyes landed on the source of the sound – that archaic rotary phone, mostly composed of cheap red plastic. Grumbling under his breath, he stood, internally regretting ever accepting to help Tubbo with his little… “project”.
His hand closed around the frantically ringing rotary phone, but only after he lifted the receiver to his ear, he noticed a chilling detail.
This phone wasn’t plugged in.
“H… Hello?” They couldn’t keep the anxiety from leaking into their voice.
There was no response. Maybe this phone was battery-run, and designed to start ringing. Oh, Tubbo’s gonna laugh his ass off at me.
Ranboo waited for only a couple more seconds before sighing, giving a bit of a relieved laugh as he lowered the phone back down–
“Hello? Hello?” That voice came from the phone, which wasn’t even plugged into the wall – a boy’s voice, youth evident beneath his gruff tone.
“Who is this?” Ranboo shouted into the receiver. “Tubbo, is that you? Is this a walkie-talkie or something!?”
“Who– What the fuck!?” The voice yelled back. “Who the fuck are you, dipshit!?”
That wasn’t Tubbo.
Ranboo had no clue who this was.
“Alright, I’m hanging up,” announced Ranboo – this was moreover a thought to themself than a response to the boy. But once again, as he made to lower the phone, they stopped.
“Wait, wait! No!” the boy shouted. “Don’t hang up, please!”
“What do you want? Who are you?” Ranboo responded. “Did Tubbo put you up to this?”
“Who the fuck’s Tubb– okay, I’m… I’m… I need your help.”
Ranboo couldn’t stop their brows from raising, stress growing in his chest – not only by the peculiarity of the entirety of this situation, but also how they were talking into an unplugged, ancient rotary phone, which probably dated back to the 1920s. “Do you, now?”
A surge of static assaulted Ranboo’s eardrums for a moment before the boy’s voice returned. “Yes… Yes! I need your help, I… Please.”
“Why should I help you?” Ranboo shot a glance back at their poor, forgotten history homework – he really needed to finish reading that chapter, or he’d be screwed in tomorrow’s test.
“I don’t– I, I–” the voice stammered, more static rising up again.
“How are you talking to me, anyway!?” Ranboo’s voice rose, and they thought they heard the boy give a sharp intake of breath. “This– This goddamn phone isn’t even plugged in! Is that why Tubbo forced me to take it, ’cause there’s a damn ghost inside?” Ranboo didn’t wait for an answer. “Ohh, whatever, I’m going insane! I knew I shouldn’t have taken that Advil,” he continued, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair. “God, I’m gonna have to call Aimsey again…”
“Please– Please, listen to me!” As the boy suddenly shouted at Ranboo, interrupting their train of thought, his voice was accompanied by a surge of static. “I– I don’t know where I am, all I have is this– this fucking– oh, whatever, but you’re– you’re the only person who can help me, okay?”
Ranboo sighed. Was it so ridiculous, contemplating actually trying to “help” this boy? He sounded terrified, after all… and Ranboo never hallucinated, so unless their mental state had taken a terrible turn for the worst, this had to be real. And… well, he may as well figure out what this person wanted before hanging up, anyway.
“Okay, fine. I’ll help.”
“Really? Oh, shit, awesome, okay!” The boy gave a little laugh, though it still sounded strangled by fear. “Well… First, I need you to download a map of– uhm, of wherever we are. Brighton?”
“...This is Michigan. In the… USA?”
“Oh, great. I fuckin’ hate Americans,” the voice grumbled. “But– But not you! You’re a good American! ’Cause… ’Cause you’re helping me, eh?”
“...Yeah.” Ranboo reached over, grabbing a pad of sticky notes and ballpoint pen from the kitchen island’s drawer. “Download a Michigan map… then what?”
“Okay, uh… shit, what the hell is this? Okay, text it to this number…”
As the boy slowly struggled to read out each individual number (“alright, and this bit’s in parentheses”), Ranboo scribbled the number down. “That all?”
“Y… Yeah! And I’ll call you when I’ve got more, okay?”
Had Ranboo just sold his soul to a ghost? Oh, they hoped not… how else would they finish Tubbo’s LA exam for him?
“Okay.” Ranboo began to lower the phone, but paused. “Hey, one more thing.”
“Eh?”
“Uh… What’s your name?”
Hardly a static-filled second passed before the plastic phone in Ranboo’s hand gave a long, low, continuous buzz.
He hung up on me.
Ignoring the growing sinking feeling of dread in his gut, Ranboo tossed the plastic phone back on its stand, running a hand through his hair again before shuffling back to his history homework. Sitting back down, they pulled out their smartphone (a 2020 model, rather than a 1920 model), typing in a Google search for Michigan maps. As they scrolled through the results, they bit their lip.
Should they tell Tubbo and Aimsey…? Surely, they wouldn’t have to. But, well… if they spontaneously vanished tonight, shouldn’t someone have something to tell the police?
He hefted a heavy sigh, now typing in the contact information the mysterious voice had given him. As he attached a map of the state to a text, his thumb trembled for a moment. Was this really a good idea?
He pressed “Send”.
There was no harm in helping someone out.
Right?