THE LAST CALL 1
1675 Words
At exactly 2:13 a.m., the phone rang.
Not the mobile phone resting on the bedside table.
The old landline.
The one Maya Collins had unplugged three years ago after her father's funeral.
She opened her eyes, convinced she had imagined it. The apartment was swallowed by darkness, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside her bedroom window. Rain tapped softly against the glass.
Then it rang again.
A slow, deliberate, shrill sound echoed through the silent apartment.
Maya's heartbeat quickened.
No one could call that phone.
She had removed the cord herself.
She sat upright, listening.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
The sound came from the living room.
Every instinct screamed at her to stay in bed.
Instead, she grabbed the baseball bat she kept beside her nightstand and stepped into the hallway.
The apartment felt different.
Colder.
The air smelled faintly of damp earth.
She crept toward the living room.
The phone continued ringing.
Its faded cream-colored body sat on the small wooden table exactly where she'd left it years ago.
Disconnected.
Dead.
Yet somehow…
It wouldn't stop ringing.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the receiver.
The ringing stopped the instant her fingers touched it.
Silence.
She slowly lifted it to her ear.
Static.
Then…
A man's voice whispered.
"Don't open the door."
Maya froze.
"Dad?"
The line went dead.
A loud knock exploded through the apartment.
Three slow knocks.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Someone stood outside.
Every muscle in her body locked.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
No one visited at two in the morning.
Another knock.
This time louder.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
She tiptoed toward the peephole.
The hallway outside was empty.
No footsteps.
No shadows.
Nothing.
Her breathing became shallow.
Then…
Another whisper came from behind her.
"Don't."
She spun around.
No one.
The apartment was empty.
Another knock rattled the door.
She backed away.
Suddenly, her mobile phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
With shaking hands, she answered.
A calm female voice spoke.
"If you open that door, you'll die."
The call disconnected.
At that exact second…
The knocking stopped.
Silence returned.
Maya stood frozen for nearly a minute before slowly peeking through the peephole again.
Still empty.
No one.
She unlocked the door anyway.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The hallway stretched before her, deserted.
But lying on the welcome mat was a small black envelope.
No stamp.
No address.
Only her name written in silver ink.
MAYA.
She picked it up.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed her apartment building.
Taken from across the street.
The timestamp read:
2:11 a.m.
Someone had photographed her apartment only minutes earlier.
Her stomach dropped.
She flipped the picture over.
Written on the back were four words.
I can see you.
The next morning, Detective Aaron Brooks arrived before Maya had finished her second cup of coffee.
He examined the photograph carefully.
"No fingerprints."
"No security cameras?"
She shook her head.
"They've been broken for months."
Aaron frowned.
"And the phone call?"
"I know how it sounds."
"I believe that you received a call," he replied. "But a disconnected landline..."
Even he couldn't explain it.
Before leaving, he offered one piece of advice.
"If anything else happens, don't investigate it yourself."
She nodded.
She had every intention of ignoring that advice.
That afternoon, Maya walked across the street to search for where the photograph might have been taken.
She found the exact spot.
An abandoned bookstore.
The windows were covered in dust.
A faded CLOSED sign hung crookedly on the door.
She peered through the glass.
Shelves.
Darkness.
Nothing unusual.
Then…
Movement.
Someone inside.
A figure disappeared deeper into the shadows.
Maya pushed the door.
Locked.
She circled to the back alley.
The rear entrance stood slightly open.
A cold breeze drifted from inside.
Against her better judgment…
She stepped in.
Dust floated through beams of sunlight breaking through holes in the roof.
Books lay scattered across the floor.
The building smelled of mildew.
She heard footsteps upstairs.
Slow.
Heavy.
Someone was there.
"Maya..."
A voice called softly.
She looked up.
Nothing.
The footsteps stopped.
Then resumed.
Closer.
She climbed the staircase.
Each step creaked beneath her feet.
The second floor contained hundreds of empty shelves.
No person.
No sound.
Only silence.
Until she noticed a single chair in the center of the room.
On it sat another black envelope.
Waiting.
She approached carefully.
Inside…
Another photograph.
This one showed her sleeping.
Taken inside her own bedroom.
Last night.
A handwritten note rested beneath it.
You're already too late.
A loud crash echoed downstairs.
Someone had entered the bookstore.
Maya ran toward the staircase.
Halfway down, she caught a glimpse of a tall man dressed entirely in black.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
He smiled.
Then every light inside the building went out.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Maya heard footsteps rushing toward her.
Fast.
Closer.
Closer.
Then—
A hand grabbed her shoulder.The hand tightened around Maya's shoulder.
She screamed and swung the baseball bat she had carried into the bookstore.
"Wait!"
The voice was familiar.
Detective Aaron Brooks stepped back just in time to avoid the blow.
"Maya, stop!"
She lowered the bat, breathing heavily.
"Aaron?"
"I've been looking everywhere for you."
"What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same question."
Before Maya could answer, a loud bang echoed from somewhere deeper inside the building.
Both of them turned toward the sound.
Someone was running.
Aaron pulled out his flashlight and service pistol.
"Stay behind me."
The beam of light cut through the darkness as they moved cautiously through the dusty bookstore.
The footsteps grew fainter.
Whoever had been inside knew the building well.
They reached the back hallway.
An old emergency exit stood wide open, swaying in the wind.
Outside, rain poured into the alley.
Whoever had been chasing Maya had disappeared.
Aaron sighed.
"We're too late."
Maya showed him the photograph she had found upstairs.
His expression changed instantly.
"Where did you get this?"
"It was waiting for me."
Aaron stared at the picture.
"It couldn't have been taken from outside."
"What do you mean?"
He pointed toward the bedroom window in the photograph.
"The angle is wrong. Whoever took this picture was inside your apartment."
A chill spread through Maya's body.
Someone had been inside her home while she slept.
...
That evening, Aaron insisted on taking Maya back to her apartment.
He searched every room.
Closets.
Bathroom.
Kitchen.
Nothing.
No signs of forced entry.
No missing belongings.
Yet something felt different.
Maya walked into her bedroom.
Her heart stopped.
The old teddy bear she had owned since childhood was sitting upright on her pillow.
She hadn't seen it in years.
She had packed it away in a box after moving into the apartment.
Slowly, she picked it up.
A folded piece of paper fell onto the bed.
She unfolded it.
One sentence was written in neat black ink.
You never should have come back.
"Aaron..."
He rushed into the room.
His face turned pale as he read the note.
"This wasn't here earlier."
Maya shook her head.
"No."
Someone had entered the apartment while they were searching the bookstore.
Without leaving a trace.
...
The next morning, Aaron arranged for a forensic team to inspect the apartment.
Hours later, the results came back.
No fingerprints.
No footprints.
No DNA.
Nothing.
It was as if the intruder had never existed.
Frustrated, Maya decided to search through her late father's belongings.
Most of his boxes had remained unopened since his death.
Inside the last box, she found a leather journal.
The pages were old and yellow.
Her father had written in it almost every day.
At first, the entries were ordinary.
Work.
Family.
Birthdays.
Then, about six months before his death, everything changed.
The handwriting became shaky.
The entries grew shorter.
"They're watching."
"I saw him again tonight."
"He knows where we live."
"If anything happens to me, don't let Maya answer the phone."
Maya's hands trembled.
She turned to the final page.
It contained only one sentence.
He doesn't die.
Before she could read it again, the apartment lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then every light went out.
Darkness filled the room.
The power had failed.
Outside, the entire neighborhood remained brightly lit.
Only Maya's apartment was dark.
...
A slow creaking sound came from the hallway.
Someone was inside.
Maya grabbed her phone.
No signal.
She tried calling Aaron anyway.
The call wouldn't connect.
The footsteps continued.
Slow.
Measured.
Getting closer.
She quietly locked herself inside the bedroom.
The doorknob rattled.
Once.
Twice.
Then it stopped.
Silence.
For nearly a minute, nothing happened.
Then a soft voice spoke through the door.
"Maya..."
It sounded exactly like her father.
Tears filled her eyes.
"Dad?"
No answer.
Instead, three gentle knocks echoed against the wood.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The same pattern as the night before.
The doorknob began turning again.
This time, it moved slowly.
The door unlocked itself.
It creaked open.
The hallway beyond was completely empty.
No footsteps.
No shadows.
No one.
Then her phone vibrated.
A text message from an unknown number.
LOOK UNDER THE BED.
Her pulse raced.
Every instinct told her not to.
But curiosity won.
She knelt slowly.
The darkness beneath the bed seemed endless.
At first, she saw nothing.
Then...
A pair of eyes opened.
They were staring directly at her.
Maya screamed and stumbled backward.
When she looked again...
There was nothing there.
Only another black envelope lying beneath the bed.
With shaking hands, she picked it up.
Inside was an old newspaper clipping dated twenty-five years earlier.
The headline read:
LOCAL FAMILY FOUND DEAD IN MYSTERIOUS PHONE CALL CASE
At the bottom of the article, one sentence had been circled in red ink.
The only survivor was a six-year-old girl named Maya Collins.
Maya's blood ran cold.
She had no memory of the incident.
She had always believed her parents had raised her together until her father's recent death.
If this article was real...
Then who had she really been?
At that exact moment, someone whispered into her ear—
"Now you remember."
- Writer
