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.

Instantly, her heart raced as a knock echoed through the stillness of her living room, sending chills down her spine. She flinched, caught off guard by the abrupt intrusion. Peering cautiously out the window, she noticed that dusk had settled, casting a veil of darkness over everything. The once-familiar streets now felt foreign and threatening. The voice from the call echoed in her mind, a haunting reminder: “No matter what they tell you, don’t let them in. Please, I can’t do this any longer.”

Conflicted, she stood frozen for a moment. Through the darkness, she could see the silhouettes of her friends at the door, their faces illuminated by the warm glow of the porch light—a friendly sight, but her stomach twisted in knots. They had come to discuss wedding plans, excited and carefree, but her instincts told her to hide. She felt trapped between the safety of her home and the unnerving urgency of the voice's warning.

Steeling herself against the creeping fear, she took a deep breath, reminding herself to be prepared. As she made her way toward the door, she mentally compiled a list of potential weapons within reach—a kitchen knife, the heavy candlestick on the table, perhaps even the fireplace poker. Each step felt heavier, her heart threatening to leap out of her chest, a battle between logic and emotions.

She knew she shouldn't open the door, but she couldn't help thinking, "If this happens to any of my other friends, how could I live with myself knowing I could have stopped it?" She understood that this was a dangerous decision, but she also knew she was prepared. 

That night ended with one call made—not to herself, but to the police. Her tragedy would never have a chance to unfold; her call would never occur.