The midnight caller

Ada Bennett The first time my phone rang at 12:07 a.m., I almost didn’t answer. Chicago nights have a particular kind of silence. Not the peaceful kind. The heavy kind. The kind that feels like something is waiting. I was half asleep when the screen lit up on my nightstand, casting a pale glow across my bedroom ceiling. Private Number. It rang exactly four times. Then it stopped. I stared at the darkness for a long moment, listening to my own breathing. The radiator hissed softly. A car passed somewhere outside. Nothing unusual. Wrong number, I told myself. I rolled over and went back to sleep. The second night, it happened again. 12:07 a.m. Private Number. This time, I was awake. I had just turned off my bedside lamp when the vibration made my pulse jump. I stared at the screen longer than I should have, a strange reluctance settling in my chest. Then I answered. “Hello?” Silence. Not empty silence. Breathing. Soft. Steady. Controlled. The sound was faint but unmistakable—close enough to feel intimate, like someone standing just behind me in the dark. My fingers tightened around the phone. “Who is this?” The breathing continued. Slow inhale. Measured exhale. No background noise. No traffic. No television. Just that quiet, deliberate presence. A chill slid down my spine. “Stop calling me,” I said, though my voice didn’t sound as steady as I wanted. The line went dead. I didn’t sleep after that. By the fourth night, I knew it wasn’t random. It rang at 12:07 exactly. Not a minute early. Not a minute late. Precision like that isn’t accidental. I decided to test it on the fifth night. At 12:05, I turned off all the lights and sat upright against my headboard, phone in my hand, staring at the clock on my stove across the apartment. 12:06. My stomach tightened. 12:07. The phone rang. Right on cue. My pulse thudded in my ears. I let it ring twice before answering. This time, I didn’t say hello. The breathing was there again. Calm. Almost patient. As if the caller knew I would pick up. I stayed silent too. We listened to each other. After nearly thirty seconds, the line disconnected. A text came through seconds later. Unknown Number. Missed you. The words felt invasive. Too familiar. Too casual. I deleted it immediately. Blocked the number. At 12:07 the next night, it rang again. Private Number. I moved to Chicago eight months ago. New job. New apartment. New routine. New name on the mailbox. Fresh start. That’s what I told everyone when I left Boston: I needed a change. Growth. Opportunity. No one asked for more details. I was grateful for that. But now, lying awake every night waiting for a call I couldn’t stop, I wondered if fresh starts were just illusions. Maybe some things follow you. By Monday morning, I was running on caffeine and nerves. Halstead & Row Publishing occupies the thirty-second floor of a glass tower overlooking the river. Clean lines. Minimalist décor. Neutral colors are designed to suggest calm professionalism. Normally, I like it here. Predictable. Structured. Safe. The elevator ride up felt longer than usual. I checked my phone twice. No missed calls. No new messages. Relief flickered, fragile but real. Maybe whoever it was had gotten bored. Maybe I’d imagined the threat in the silence. The elevator doors slid open. And that’s when I saw him. He stood by the reception, talking to Miranda from HR. Tall, with dark hair neatly styled. His navy suit fit so well that it looked like Tom Ford specially made it for him. Unlike most new hires, he wasn’t fidgeting. He just stood there. Steady. Like he already belonged. Miranda caught my eye. “Ada, perfect timing. This is Julian Mercer. He’s transferring from our New York office to join acquisitions.” Julian looked my way. His eyes didn’t just glance over me politely. They held steady. Assessing. Calm. Focused. “Nice to meet you,” he said. His voice was low. Even. Controlled. Something about it brushed against my memory. A sound in the dark. No. That was ridiculous. Plenty of men have deep voices. I stepped forward and shook his hand. His grip was warm and firm "Welcome to Chicago." He smiled, eyes locking onto mine. "Thank you," I replied, curious. "I hear it's got a way of sneaking up on you." "It does," I said, laughing. "Eventually." He chuckled, gaze lingering. "Have you been here long?" "Not quite long, just eight months," I answered, wondering where this was heading. "And you like it?" His tone was casual, but I sensed something beneath. "Yeah," I said slowly. "It's... quieter than New York." A faint smile touched his lips. "Quieter can be good." His words sent a flutter through my chest. Miranda ditched us, leaving me with this stranger. The office noise faded as he scanned my face, eyes pausing on the shadows under my eyes. "You look tired," he said, low. I felt my neck heat up. "I'm fine." "Didn't sleep?" he asked, gently. I sighed, feeling weirdly comfortable. "I've had... interruptions." His expression shifted, and I caught a glimpse of recognition. "You just moved, right?" he asked. My heart skipped a beat. "Yeah, three weeks ago." "New places take time to settle," he said, his words sending a shiver down my spine. The word echoed uncomfortably. “How did you know I moved?” I asked. He blinked once, expression smoothing. “Lucky guess. Most people who look that exhausted either have a newborn or new walls.” I let out a small breath. Logical explanation. Don’t be paranoid, Ada. My phone buzzed in my hand. I flinched. Julian noticed. “Everything okay?” he asked quietly. “Just messages.” I glanced down, and a wave of unease washed over me. Unknown Number. A new text. My fingers felt like ice as I opened it, the words burning into my brain: Tonight. 12:07. The air seemed to thin out, making it harder to breathe. Julian's gaze was on me, not the phone. I could feel his eyes, intense and searching. My skin pricked with awareness. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his tone careful, like he was navigating a fragile situation. I met his eyes, searching for something – a flicker of guilt, a hint of amusement, anything that would give him away. But his expression was smooth, concerned, attentive. Too concerned? Maybe I was just paranoid. I forced a smile, trying to shake off the unease. “Yeah, I'm fine.” But my voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears. There was nothing. Just steady concern. Careful. Intent. “I’m fine,” I lied. He studied me for another second, as if deciding whether to push further. Then he nodded once. “If you ever need anything,” he said, voice low enough that it didn’t carry past us, “you don’t have to handle it alone.” The words should have comforted me. Instead, they unsettled me more. Because at 12:07 a.m., someone was already making sure I wasn’t alone. And for the first time since the calls began, I wasn’t sure if the danger was coming from a stranger in the dark or if it had just offered to walk me to my desk.