The horn-shaped tube detected no whispering voices, nor could I project my voice to them, as far as I could see.

“It’s a useless trifle.”

“Must be worth some bucks.”

“Maybe the room wasn’t dark enough.”

“The room was plenty dark enough.”

It stands to reason that someone took it seriously once. That someone believed they could contact the dead with the tube. But I don’t believe in the after-life.

“You’ll go to hell thinking that way.”

“I don’t believe in hell.”

“You will.”

Why must we always be at odds with others over matters that cannot be resolved? Do ghosts exist? Are UFOs for real? Does Sasquatch roam the northern woods? Is the moon-landing a hoax? Did the mafia really whack JFK? All these questions, and so many more.

“You’ve become a conspiracy buff.”

“And you believe everything the mainstream media tells you?”

“I get my news of the world from alternative sources.”

“Do they feed you alternative facts?”

“You don’t trust anybody.”

“I don’t even trust you.”

Words are spoken, often meaning nothing, more like atonal music exchanged between humans to verify their presence in the world, and validate their communion.

“Sometimes you creep me out.”

“At least not all the time.”

“I think I hear something.”

But that’s just my stomach grumbling. Haven’t eaten in two days. I don’t tell him that.

Salvatore Difalco

Salvatore Difalco is the author of five books of fiction, including "The Mountie At Niagara Falls" (Anvil Press) a collection of microfiction.