The Echo of Her Doom

Chapter 1: The First Call

She answered a phone call from her own number.

The rain poured steadily outside Nora Blake’s apartment, each drop sounding like a thousand tiny taps on the window. She sat hunched on her couch, laptop perched on her knees, eyes focused on the screen. It was well past midnight, the clock in the corner of her monitor reading 12:17 a.m. Too late to be working, too early to sleep. But the clients kept sending revisions, and Nora kept tweaking, adjusting, trying to make it perfect—perfect for them, perfect for her.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, an unexpected interruption to the steady hum of the rain and the click-clack of her keyboard. She didn’t expect a call at this hour, not from anyone she knew.

She glanced at the screen. The number was hers.

Her own name flashed in bold white letters.

“What the hell?” she muttered under her breath, setting the laptop aside. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe someone was spoofing her number. Or maybe it was a glitch. She’d heard of people getting calls from their own numbers before, but it had never happened to her.

It was almost absurd. But curiosity got the better of her, and she reached for the phone. It buzzed again, this time insistent, as if calling her back to answer. She swiped to pick it up.

“Hello?” Her voice was small, quiet, unsure.

The line crackled for a moment, static buzzing in her ear before a voice came through.

Nora froze.

It was her voice.

But distorted.

It didn’t sound right. The voice that answered her call wasn’t warm like her own. It was thin, stretched, filled with an edge of panic.

“Nora, please… please, you have to help me. It’s coming. It’s here.”

Her breath caught in her throat. The words were chilling, but it was the voice—her voice—that made her pulse quicken.

“Who is this?” Nora stammered, her hands shaking. “How did you get my number?”

The voice on the other end didn’t answer right away. There was a deep, jagged breath, then, “They know what you did. They know about the house. The door you opened. You have to close it, Nora. Before it’s too late.”

The line went dead.

Nora sat there, the phone pressed against her ear, staring at the now-silent screen. The call had lasted a mere 13 seconds. She couldn’t even register what had just happened. Her own number. Her own voice. But not her. Not really.

She tapped the screen to call back, but the call wouldn’t go through. It went straight to voicemail. The voicemail greeting she had recorded herself sounded almost too normal. Too distant. “Hey, it’s Nora! Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

What the hell was that?

Nora’s heart was pounding. She stood up, pacing around the small apartment. The air felt thick, the room too quiet. The rain outside still drummed steadily against the window, but now it felt muffled, as if the sound itself had changed. She rubbed her face, trying to shake off the eerie sensation crawling down her spine.

Had she imagined it? Had she fallen asleep for a second and dreamt the whole thing?

No. She couldn’t have. It had been too real.

She checked the call log again. But it was gone. The entry for the call had vanished, as if it had never existed at all. There was nothing there.

It didn’t make sense. She ran through the list of contacts, checked her settings, even the recently deleted calls. Nothing.

This wasn’t a prank. She wasn’t imagining things.

Her phone buzzed again, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

It was her own number again.

She stared at the screen, her fingers hovering over the screen. She could ignore it. Just turn the phone off, go to bed, forget it had ever happened. But the voice—the panic in the voice, the message it had left—there was something in her gut telling her to pick up. That she had to. She had no idea why.

She answered.

“Nora,” the voice whispered, even softer this time. It was closer, like it was in the room with her. “You shouldn’t have picked up.”

Nora’s throat went dry, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She could barely form words, but she had to ask. “What do you want from me?”

“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” the voice continued, its tone too familiar and too wrong. “You’ve always known. You let it in, Nora. It’s been waiting all this time.”

Nora’s stomach twisted. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice shaking. “Who are you?”

But the voice just kept going, not answering, not even giving her a chance to speak. “The house. The door. You opened it, didn’t you? You were just a kid, but you knew exactly what you were doing. Now, it’s time to face it. You can’t outrun it.”

A flash of memory hit her like a jolt of electricity, sharp and jarring. The house. She’d been there. She’d seen it. There had been a door. A door she wasn’t supposed to open. But it was blurry, distant, like the edges of a forgotten dream. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push it away, but the voice wouldn’t let her.

The door. The house.

No. She couldn’t think about it. Not now.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“It’s too late,” the voice said, its tone final, full of something that might have been regret. “You’re already in it.”

Then the line went dead again.

Nora stood there, holding the phone, but her mind was racing. Her hands were numb. She couldn’t think. She didn’t know if she should be scared, confused, or furious. Maybe all three.

The apartment felt smaller now. The walls felt too close. The shadows in the corners seemed darker. She thought she saw something move at the edge of her vision, but when she looked, there was nothing.

Her heart was still thumping in her chest, but now it was like it was in her throat, choking her. She needed to get out. She needed to leave. But where would she go? She didn’t even know where to start.

Nora collapsed onto the couch, her mind whirling with the voice, the words, the memories she couldn’t quite reach. The rain outside didn’t feel comforting anymore. It felt like a warning. The storm was only getting worse.

She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so trapped.

The phone buzzed once more, this time a text message.

She almost didn’t want to look, but she had to. Something inside her was telling her to check, to keep going, to find out what was next.

The message was simple. One line.

“You opened the door. Now, you have to close it.”

The words felt like ice in her veins.

What had she done? What was she supposed to do now?

She stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity, too scared to move, too scared to think. The storm outside raged on.

And inside, everything felt like it was about to break.