How Silence Became Sinister

The headlights carved a path down the dark two-lane road, reflecting off signs warning of the hazard of deer crossing. In the fields stretching into the distance, the hulking silhouettes of sheds, barns and silos rested under a thick blanket of stars. Occasionally a pinprick of light from a farmhouse interrupted the blackness.

The tires hummed a relentless tune as the miles passed. Here on the edge of the prairies, sleepy villages were almost nonexistent. Help could be as distant as the stars.

Life in rural Alberta pairs long winter nights with two-lane roads bounded by vast sweeps of emptiness.

Thirty years ago, for the loved one waiting at home, there was nothing unusual about the silence surrounding a trip like this. If the expected arrival time came and they didn't, there was nothing to do but continue to wait. It would take hours before worry settled in.

But now we have cell phones.

And so, when my husband hadn't arrived at the expected time after an hour's drive from Red Deer, I sent a gentle Hey, is everything okay? message. I held onto the phone in anticipation of a quick reply. When none came, I rationalized that he was driving and unable to text. Eager not to be a neurotic wife, I waited.

Five minutes later, I checked my phone.

Nothing.

Ten minutes. I checked again.

Still nothing.

That's when my suspicious mind went into overdrive. Attempting to ignore it, I flipped through channels on the TV faster than the onslaught of thoughts of a car resting in a field with its lights pointing skyward. After I convinced myself that I'd missed a message from my husband, I dropped the remote and picked up my phone.

No new messages.

The sleek phone became a heavy brick in my hand. I paced the room, searching for rational thought and the ability to banish the image of our car with its front end smashed and smoldering. Unable to do either, I phoned my husband, proud that I had figured out he could respond to a call while driving.

No answer.

No problem. My husband listens to audiobooks while driving, making it difficult for him to answer calls before they go to voicemail. He'd call back.

I wandered from window to window.

The images of the car wreck became more gruesome.

There's an old philosophical question: If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

Staring out at the darkness, I found myself pondering a variation: If someone cries out on an isolated country road and no one is there to hear them, who comes to help?

I called my husband again and left a message in a voice strained with urgency—Is everything okay?

More pacing.

More nothing in response.

I checked the time. He was now an hour overdue.

To my relief, headlights carved a path up our driveway. Next came the story about a dead cellphone and a series wrong turns on isolated country roads swallowed by the darkness.

Cell phones were supposed to make us worry less.

Instead, they've changed our expectations.

We've become so accustomed to instant contact that silence now feels ominous.

As a suspense writer, I spend a lot of time with the fear of the unknown. The funny thing is that in fiction, an unanswered call always means trouble. In real life, it usually means someone forgot to charge their phone. But our imagination often jumps to the worst-case scenario.

And that's the curse of cell phones.

It hasn't eliminated uncertainty.

It's simply reduced our tolerance for it.