The Cut Line
Clara arrived early.
Earlier than usual, even for her. The building was barely unlocked, the light over the lobby still flickering as the janitor fumbled with his keys.
She walked straight to her station, head down, notebook hidden in her coat.
Her hands didn't hesitate.
She pulled her headset from the jack.
Then pulled the jack from the board.
Then opened the back panel beneath her desk, found the line coil, and cut it. Clean. A single snip with a pair of pocket scissors she never used before.
No spark. No sound.
But the silence that followed felt deeper.
She coiled the now-dead wire, tucked it under her desk, and sat down.
The board remained lit—its usual soft glow—but she was severed. Untethered. For the first time in weeks, she couldn't hear the voice.
Couldn't hear any voice.
The shift started.
The girls filtered in. Ruth waved. Betty asked if she wanted coffee. Clara declined.
When Miss Luntz walked by and saw her disconnected jack, she paused.
"Line down?"
Clara nodded. "Crossed signal. It started shorting. Might be the port."
Luntz narrowed her eyes. "You filed a service report?"
Clara held up a blank form, already filled with handwriting. "Just did."
Luntz made a vaguely displeased noise and moved on.
Clara sat still.
Hands folded.
Eyes forward.
The board glowed.
The girls spoke.
The calls came.
But she didn't plug in.
She didn't move.
And still—
Still, she could feel it.
A pressure.
Like something was waiting.
At first, the silence was a relief.
No patchwork static. No mysterious phrases slipping into her ears like oil through a crack. Just the dull hum of the building—footsteps, typewriters, voices from other floors.
But by 9:00 a.m., the pressure returned.
Not sound, exactly.
Suggestion.
A hum beneath her hearing.
Her dead console flickered—only once.
A single bulb above Jack 7 blinked yellow, then went dark again.
Clara stared at it.
That line had been cut. She had cut it.
She reached beneath the desk and touched the loose coil. Still disconnected.
And yet the light had blinked.
At 9:14 a.m., she heard a whisper.
Not through the headset—she wasn't wearing it.
It came from her left.
From the empty chair beside her.
A soft, clipped phrase:
> "Clara. Line open. Pattern intact."
She turned sharply.
No one.
Betty was at her own station, two desks down, humming.
Clara stood. Crossed the room. Entered the breakroom. Empty.
She stood before the mirror above the sink.
Her reflection didn't move.
Then—blink.
The light above the mirror flickered once.
Soft. Like static in the dark.
She walked back to her console.
The dead line blinked again.
This time—twice.
She hadn't plugged anything in.
Her console was still dark, the jack cut, her headset coiled like a dead snake beside her ledger.
And yet—
tick
The message ticker at the top of the board stuttered.
It hadn't made that sound in weeks.
Clara looked up sharply. The strip of beige paper fed itself through the machine, slow and deliberate. No bell rang. No signal light flashed.
Just the rhythmic click click click of the typebar hammering on its own.
She stepped closer.
Letters formed in courier black, one at a time:
> CLARA VARNELL
She froze.
Not typed by the system—not its usual block print. This was handwritten, somehow. The type formed an imitation of her own script—curved, delicate, unmistakable.
The ticker stopped.
She didn't breathe.
Then, without warning, Line 4 hissed.
No light. No indicator.
But sound.
She picked up the headset before thinking—and pressed it to her ear.
No voice.
Just breathing.
Slow. Hollow. Wet with mechanical static.
She lowered the receiver—and the breathing continued.
Out loud.
Not in the headset.
In the room.
Behind her.
She turned—
Nothing.
Just the silent rows of operators, none of whom looked her way.
Back at her desk, the message strip kept printing.
New words:
> PLEASE HOLD
Then, beneath it:
> YOU ARE STILL CONNECTED
Clara stood.
She didn't grab her coat, didn't unplug anything—there was nothing left to unplug. She just walked.
Out of the switchboard room. Past Ruth, who was mid-laugh about something Clara didn't hear. Down the south corridor, where the lights flickered inconsistently, casting narrow shadows that seemed to lag behind her footsteps.
She hit the elevator button.
The doors opened before she touched it.
She stepped in.
Pressed the L for lobby.
The doors closed.
The car didn't move.
The panel lights flickered—then dimmed.
She pressed L again. Then 1. Then Open.
Nothing.
Her reflection in the brushed steel of the door watched her calmly. Too calmly.
Then the floor indicator dinged:
2
3
4
She hadn't pressed those.
The elevator began to rise.
She reached for the emergency stop—but the switch was gone. A blank panel where it should have been.
The elevator stopped at 5.
The doors opened.
A hallway she didn't recognize.
Long. Too long.
She stepped out, slowly.
Each step felt muted, like walking on thick carpet though the floor was still tile.
She passed a clock on the wall. It read: 6:41
Her watch: 6:14
Another ten steps. A second clock: 6:03
Every hallway was lined with doors, but none had handles. Only numbers—out of order.
302
14R
Echo B
She turned to go back.
The elevator was gone.
There was only a wall.
No frame. No seam.
Only the whisper behind her:
> "You left too late."
Clara didn't remember how she got back to her station.
Not exactly.
The hallways blurred. Some doors were missing. Others had appeared where none should be. At one point she passed a water fountain she hadn't seen since training. It was rusted now. The sign above it read simply: ROOT ACCESS.
But eventually, she was there.
Back at her desk.
Same headset. Same dead jack. Same coiled cable with its clean, precise cut.
She sank into her chair, heart thudding behind her ribs like it was trying to call out through her chest.
The switchboard in front of her was quiet.
Dead quiet.
No lights.
No sound.
Then—ring.
Just once.
Sharp. Metallic. Mechanical.
The headset, still unplugged, buzzed. Not from a jack. From itself. The coil tensed, flexing slightly like a coiled muscle waking up.
Clara stared.
The message ticker moved.
No bell. No trigger.
Just two words, slowly typed:
> Answer. Now.
She picked up the headset.
She didn't plug it in.
She just raised it to her ear.
And listened.
Nothing.
Then:
> "You were always connected."
The voice was hers.
No inflection. No emotion.
Just a confirmation.
And behind it, layered like breathing in a tunnel, a thousand faint voices whispering in sync:
> "Repeat. Repeat. Repeat."
She closed her eyes.
The line didn't hum.
It waited.