Hypnovember 2026 – Day 6

We’re entering this challenge for the first time, using the list below as a reference to write a series of flash fiction pieces. Come along on this journey, and let’s continue to have fun.

You can thank https://x.com/Skronos_ for creating such a detailed selection of deliciously kinky concepts to work with.

Day 6 – Right Number (Phone)

The script said to start with panic.

“Grandma? It’s me. I’m in trouble, and I need your help, and please don’t tell Mom.”

Kyle had said those lines four hundred times. He sat at a folding table in an office above a vape shop in Henderson, headset on, a printed list of names at his elbow. The list came from a data broker: women over seventy-five who lived alone. Ruth Abernathy of Sedona, Arizona, was number thirty-one.

There was a pause on the line. Then a warm, slightly husky voice said, “Oh, sweetheart. Which one are you?”

That was always a good sign. “It’s me, Grandma. Your favorite.”

“Of course it is.” He heard a teacup set down on a saucer. “You sound stuffy. Have you been crying?”

“I’m in jail,” Kyle said, letting his voice crack on cue. “There was an accident. The lawyer says I need eight thousand for bail, and I need it today.”

“Eight thousand. That’s a lot of money. Before we talk about the money, I want you to do something for me, because you sound so frightened. Will you do that?”

He glanced at the script. There was nothing on it for this. “Sure, Grandma.”

“Close your eyes. Just for a moment. Take a breath in, all the way down, and hold it while I count to four.”

He closed his eyes. It was easier to sound emotional with them closed anyway. She counted. Her voice dropped a little on each number, like someone walking downstairs.

“And let it go,” she said. “Good. You’re very good at this. Breathe in again.”

Ruth Abernathy had spent forty-one years as a licensed clinical hypnotherapist, first in a hospital in Phoenix, then in a private practice with a red door and a waiting room full of ferns. She had helped smokers quit, and surgeons stop shaking. She had retired to Sedona with her late husband’s telescope and a cat named Mr. Pibbles, and she had very little patience left for people who frightened the elderly.

She knew within six words that the boy on the phone was not her grandson. Her grandsons were named Calvin and Eli, and neither of them would ever call her Grandma. They called her Ruthie.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” she said. “Now I want you to notice how heavy the headset feels. Notice how much easier it would be to rest your head. You’ve been working so hard. You’ve been saying words that aren’t yours, all day, every day. That’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Kyle said, not sure why. His forehead nearly touched the table.

“What’s your real name, sweetheart?”

“Kyle.”

“Kyle. That’s a good name. Kyle, I’m going to keep talking, and you’re going to keep listening, and with every word, the script on your desk is going to feel less important, and my voice will matter more. Is that alright?”

It was. It was more than all right. It was the first time all week that anything had felt quiet.

She kept him on the line for fifty minutes. The man at the next table assumed Kyle had hooked a big one and gave him a thumbs-up.

By the end of the call, Ruth knew the name of the company and the password to the shared drive where they tracked every payment. She also knew that Kyle was twenty-four, and that he had taken the job after a temp agency sent him there for “phone sales” and he’d been too ashamed to quit.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Ruth said. “When we hang up, you’re going to feel calm and clear. Tonight, after everyone leaves, you’re going to download every record of every payment, and you’re going to take it to the police station on Water Street. You’ll tell them the truth. It will feel like setting down something heavy.”

“Okay,” Kyle said.

“And then you’re going to call every name on that list. Every one. Not to ask for anything. To tell them about the scam so they know what to watch for, and to ask if they’re doing all right. Some of them won’t have had anyone ask that in a long time.”

“Okay,” he said again.

“And Kyle? Once a week, on Sundays, you’ll call me. Just to let me know how you’re getting on.”

The police raid made the Las Vegas evening news. A detective told a reporter that the case had broken open thanks to a cooperating insider who had walked in with a flash drive and an apology. Most of the stolen money was recovered. The rest, according to a court filing, was repaid out of the insider’s own wages over the following year.

Kyle works at a grocery store now. On his days off, he volunteers with a nonprofit that runs a hotline for seniors who think they might be getting scammed, and he is, by every account, very good on the phone.

Every Sunday at four, Ruth’s phone rings. She settles into her chair with her tea, and Mr. Pibbles settles into her lap.

“Hi, Ruthie,” Kyle says. He’s the only one besides her grandsons she lets call her that.

“Hello, sweetheart. Close your eyes now… Let’s see how you’re doing.”