The Late Night Call
A woman lived alone in a small apartment. One night, she received a call from an unknown number. She answered, and a man’s voice whispered, “I’m at your door.” Startled, she quickly checked the door through the peephole, but no one was there. She dismissed it as a prank and went back to her evening.
A few minutes later, her phone rang again. The same voice, now more menacing, said, “I’m in your building.” Her heart raced as she checked the door again—still no one. She tried calling the police, but before she could, the phone rang one last time. The voice, now just outside her door, whispered, “I’m in your apartment.”
The line went dead, and she felt a cold breeze from behind.
The woman froze, her breath caught in her throat. She slowly turned, dread creeping up her spine. The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the dim glow of her phone. The silence was suffocating. She scanned the room—nothing seemed out of place. But she could feel it, that someone was there with her, watching.
Her heart pounded as she tiptoed toward the kitchen, where she kept a knife in the drawer. Each step felt like a lifetime, her ears straining to catch any sound. She reached the drawer, her fingers trembling as she pulled it open quietly, the metallic clink of the knife echoing in the stillness.
Suddenly, she heard a soft creak behind her, like a footstep on the old wooden floor. She whipped around, knife in hand, her eyes darting around the empty room. There was nothing there—nothing she could see. But the air felt thick, as if someone was standing just inches away, cloaked in the darkness.
She slowly backed away, every instinct screaming at her to run, but her legs felt like lead. The phone in her hand buzzed with another call. The screen lit up, the same unknown number. Hands shaking, she answered, holding the phone to her ear.
This time, the voice was right next to her ear, a chilling whisper: “Don’t turn around.”
She could feel the breath on her neck.