Manx- From The White

  “I don’t remember anymore,” Wayne told him.

  Better to say that than to say he’d been dreaming about Brad McCauley and Marta Gregorski and the other children in Christmasland. Not that it was Christmasland anymore. It was just The White now. It was just the furious white static of a dead channel, and the children ran in it, playing their games. Last night’s game had been called bite-the-smallest. Wayne could still taste blood. He moved his tongue around and around inside the sticky socket of his mouth. In his dream he’d had more teeth.
...

  He looked at it sitting in its black plastic cradle on an end table just to his right. It was a few minutes past seven, early for a call—but maybe it was about the job they were getting ready to go off on. Maybe whoever had ditched his car was being helped by someone else. It happened.

  Wayne answered.

  The phone hissed: loud roar of white noise.

  “Wayne,” said a breathy girl with a Russian accent. “When are you coming back? When are you coming back to play?”

  Wayne couldn’t answer, his tongue sealed to the roof of his mouth, his pulse ticking in his throat. It wasn’t the first time they had called.

  “We need you. You can rebuild Christmasland. You can think it all back. All the rides. All the shops. All the games. There’s nothing to play with here. You have to help us. With Mr. Manx gone, there’s only you.”

  Wayne heard the front door open. He hit END. As Tabitha Hutter stepped into the hallway, he was setting the phone back in its cradle.

- Come All Ye Faithful: Gunbarrel