The Caller

She answered a phone call from her own number in the stillness of the late afternoon, confused. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that crept across the room. On the other end of the line, she heard low, labored breathing—ragged and heavy.

Then, a voice that sounded eerily like her own whispered urgently, “Don’t let them in.” Each word was laced with desperation. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was about to ask, “Let who in?” when the voice interrupted her, the urgency amplifying. “No matter what they tell you, don’t let them in. Please, I can’t do this any longer.” Alarm coursed through her veins. She gripped her pen tightly, the cool metal biting into her palm as she fumbled for a piece of paper, her breath quickening. “What’s your name?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly as she prepared to write down the information, ready to capture this absurd situation.

The reply was short, brief, and chilling. “Maria Richardson and 1234 Sunset Blvd, Los Angeles, CA.” Fear overwhelmed her again as she recognized her name and address. Just as she opened her mouth to respond, the line was abruptly interrupted by a deep male voice demanding, “What are you doing? Who are you calling?” She froze as the chilling sound of a blood-curdling scream shattered the atmosphere. The call ended with a final, ominous click.