𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟏 | 𝐑𝐎𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐕𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐘

benjamin denton was done staying in his aunt and uncle’s house. the pair were nut jobs, he’d decided while overseeing a funeral for a pair of toads he’d been accused of killing. a pair of toads, he soon found, uncle harvey was irrationally attached to.

martin hasn’t called him for three days, two more days than he was supposed to stay in this utter hellhole. neither had you. anxiety clawed at the back of his mind at the thought of it. so the moment aunt val and uncle harvey were out, he snuck downstairs towards the landline phone.

the footsteps above were an impending reminder of their return that made benjamin’s stomach curl. soft singing travelled down the stairs, the daughters’ ominous songs only dithering his rapidly growing discomfort within his aunt and uncle’s home.

the comically toad shaped phone shook in his tight grip as he desperately jabbed in your familiar phone number. he pressed the the amphibian phone to his ear, tapping his foot anxiously in time with the droning ring as he waited for a response.

it was a moment, a torturously long moment, before he heard your familiar voice.