Desperation

by Stephen King

He straightened up and saw Cynthia standing at the desk. The top of this one was much neater. There was a PowerBook on it, closed. Next to it was a telephone. Next to the phone was an answering machine with the red message-light blinking. Cynthia picked up the telephone, listened, then put it back. He was startled by the whiteness of her face. With that little blood in her head, she should be lying on the floor dead-fainted away, he thought. Instead of fainting, she reached a finger toward the PLAY MESSAGES button on the answering machine. “Don’t do that!” he hissed. God knew why, and it was too late, anyway. There was a beep. A click. Then a strange voice—it seemed to be neither male nor female, and it scared the hell out of Steve—began to speak. “Pneuma,” it said in a contemplative voice. “Soma. Sarx. Pneuma. Soma. Sarx. Pneuma. Soma. Sarx.” It went on slowly enunciating these words, seeming to grow louder as it spoke. Was that possible? He stared at the machine, fascinated, the words hitting into his brain (soma sarx pneuma) like tiny sharp carpet-tacks. He might have gone on staring at it for God knew how long if Cynthia hadn’t reached past him and banged the STOP button hard enough to make the machine jump on the desk. “Sorry, nope, too creepy.” She sounded both apologetic and defiant.