Someone Is Calling……

 

 

Paula stared at her phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dim light of her apartment. It was past midnight, and the city outside her window hummed with distant traffic, a soundtrack to her insomnia. She had just settled into bed when the first call came. An unknown number, no caller ID. She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the decline button. But curiosity tugged at her—maybe it was a wrong number, or perhaps her friend from out of town. She answered.

“Hello?” Her voice was tentative, laced with the exhaustion of a long day at the office.

Silence at first, then a low, distorted whisper. “You think you’re safe, Paula. But I see you.”

Her heart skipped. “Who is this?”

The line crackled, and the voice continued, mechanical, as if filtered through some app. “Your blue dress tonight. Pretty. But it won’t protect you from what’s coming.”

Click. The call ended.

Paula sat up, her pulse racing.  Nasty, she thought, but probably a prank. Kids these days with their apps. She tried to sleep, but the words echoed: “I see you.” How did they know her name? Her dress? She had worn blue to dinner with colleagues. Coincidence? She tossed and turned, the need to know gnawing at her. Who? Why?

The next morning, as she sipped coffee in her kitchen, a text pinged from an unrecognised number. “Sleep well? Dreams of me chasing you through the park. You’ll run, but not far enough.”

Her hands trembled. The park—she jogged there every weekend. This wasn’t random. She typed back: “Who are you? Stop this.”

No reply. She blocked the number, but the fear lingered, a cold knot in her stomach. At work, she confided in her coworker, Mia. “Probably some creep from online,” Mia said. “Ignore it.”

But Paula couldn’t. That night, another call, different number. She answered, driven by that insistent pull—what if ignoring made it worse? What if they revealed something?

“You blocked me,” the voice hissed, deeper this time, almost amused. “Smart. But I have more numbers. Infinite. And I know your secrets, Paula. Like that night in college. The one you buried.”

Her breath caught. College? The party where she’d blacked out, woken up alone, rumors swirling. No one knew the details, not even her closest friends. “What do you want?” she whispered.

“Your fear. It’s delicious.” Laughter, tinny and echoing. Then, “Watch your back. I’m closer than you think.”

The call dropped. Paula paced her living room, lights on full blast. She should call the police, but what would she say? Prank calls? No evidence of real threat and deep down, a morbid curiosity burned. Who knew about college? An ex? A stalker? She needed answers.

Days blurred. The calls came sporadically, always from new numbers—burners, she guessed. One afternoon, while shopping, her phone buzzed. Text: “Those apples look ripe. But poison lurks inside. Like you.”

She spun around, scanning the aisles. No one suspicious. She replied: “Show yourself, coward.”

No response. Blocked again. But the eerie precision unnerved her. How did they know she was buying apples?

That evening, a call at dinner. She answered, fork midway to her mouth. “Eating alone again? Pathetic. I could join you. Break down the door.”

“Leave me alone!” she shouted, but her voice cracked. Frightened, yes, but that need—to know, to understand—kept her on the line.

“Tell me,” the voice purred, “do you remember the scar on your knee? From the fall. I was there.”

She touched her knee instinctively. A childhood accident, biking in the suburbs. No one talked about it. “How do you know that?”

Click.

The mystery deepened, pulling her in like a riptide. She started researching—apps for spoofing numbers, reverse lookups. Nothing worked. Friends suggested changing her number, but she resisted. If she did, how would she ever find out?

A week later, midnight again. New number. She answered, heart pounding. “Why me?”

“Because you’re mine, Paula. Always have been. That locket you wear—your mother’s. I’ll take it when I come for you.”

She clutched the necklace, a family heirloom. Tears welled. Upset, terrified, but she pressed: “Who are you? Please.”

Laughter. “Phantom. Ghost. Your worst nightmare.”

The threats escalated subtly, woven with personal details that made it intriguing, almost seductive in its horror. One message: “Your boss’s email. I could send those photos. Ruin you.”

Photos? She had none compromising, but the implication chilled her. She replied: “What photos? Tell me.”

Silence.

Another call, 3 AM. She jolted awake, grabbing the phone. “You sleep with the light on now. Scared of shadows? Good. They’re my friends.”

“Tell me your name,” she begged, voice hoarse.

“Names are for the living.” Click.

The pattern repeated, eerie in its unpredictability. Different numbers each time—some international, some local, one even mimicking her own area code perfectly. She collected them in a notebook, a detective in her own nightmare. The messages were short, nasty: “Die slowly.” “I’m watching.” “Your end is near.”

Yet she answered every time. The fear was real—locks checked twice, curtains drawn—but the intrigue overpowered it. What if this was connected to her past? Her estranged father? A jilted lover? The mystery was a puzzle, and she craved the pieces.

One rainy evening, as thunder rumbled, a text: “Wet outside. Like your tears. Cry for me.”

She was crying, alone on her couch. How? Was there a camera? She searched her apartment, found nothing. Replied: “Where are you?”

No answer.

Then a call, new number. “Under your bed,” the voice teased.

She laughed nervously, checking anyway. Empty. “Liar.”

“Am I? Check your closet.”

She froze. The closet door was ajar. She approached slowly, phone clutched like a weapon. Pulled it open—clothes, shoes. Nothing.

“See? Playing games.” But her voice shook.

“I’ll win,” the voice said. “Soon.”

The intrigue built layers. Hints dropped like breadcrumbs: “Remember the lake house?” Her family’s old holiday spot, abandoned years ago. “I waited there.”

For what? She drove there one weekend, compelled. The place was dilapidated, overgrown. No one. But on the porch, a note: “Closer.”

Her blood ran cold. How? She hadn’t told anyone she was going.

Back home, more calls. “You found it. Smart girl. But the game’s not over.”

Threats turned personal: “Your sister’s number. I could call her too.”

“Don’t!” Paula screamed into the phone. Her sister lived miles away.

“Then beg.”

She did, humiliated, frightened. But still, she answered the next one, and the next.

Weeks turned to months. The phantom caller became a fixture, eerie whispers in her life. One night, a video message from yet another number: a blurry figure in shadows, holding a knife. “For you.”

She reported it to police finally, but they dismissed it—spoofed, untraceable. “Change your number,” they said.

She did, reluctantly. Peace for a week. Then, a call to her new number. “Think that stops me? I have ways.”

How? Hacked? Inside job? The mystery deepened, intriguing despite the terror.

Messages now: “Your new coffee shop. Latte with almond milk. Spill it, like your blood.”

She stopped going out. But the need to know kept her responding: “Why? What did I do?”

“You forgot me. But I remember.”

Forgot who? High school crush? Colleague? The puzzle consumed her.

One call, voice cracking: “I’m tired, Paula. End this.”

“How?” she whispered.

“Come to the park. Midnight.”

Tempting. Dangerous. She went, heart hammering. Empty benches, fog rolling in. Her phone rang—new number.

“You’re here. Good girl.”

“Where are you?”

“Behind you.”

She whirled. Nothing. Laughter on the line.

“Run.”

She did, sprinting home, locking doors. But the intrigue— who was this phantom?

More instances: A call during a meeting, she excused herself to answer. “Whispering secrets? I’ll shout yours.”

Text at a date: “He’s not for you. I’ll make sure.”

She canceled dates and felt isolated.

The eeriness peaked one stormy night. Power out, candlelight flickering. Call: “Darkness suits you. Like death.”

“Tell me who you are!” she demanded.

A pause. “Your reflection.”

What? Mind games.

Then, a revelation hint: “The accident. You drove away.”

Accident? Years ago, a hit-and-run she witnessed but didn’t report. Guilt buried.

“You?” she gasped.

“Victim’s brother.”

But the victim lived. Was it true?

“Meet me. Warehouse on Elm.”

She went, driven by need.

Inside, a phone rang—landline. She answered.

“Got you.”

Now she would know.