The Midnight Caller
Rain lashed against the windowpanes of Claire Donovan's small apartment as she stared at the blinking cursor on the screen of her laptop. Two weeks were left for the deadline of her latest novel, and she hadn't typed a single word. The thrillers she was known for had grown stale, her creativity dulled by the monotony of small-town life.
The shrill ring of her phone startled her. Glancing at the clock, she frowned - it was nearly midnight.
"?Hello?" she answered hesitantly.
There was silence, then a faint crackle of static. Just as she was about to hang up, a voice low and deliberate spoke.
"Do you remember the woods behind Ridgefield High?"
Claire froze. Her heart was pounding. The woods behind her old high school were the last place on earth she wanted to think about. Something had happened there ten years ago-something she'd buried deep.
"Who is this?" she demanded, shaking.
"You already know," the voice responded before the line went dead.
Claire stared at the phone, her mind racing. It had to be a prank. Nobody knew about that night. She hadn't told a soul.
The next day, Claire tried to convince herself it was just some sick local teen who'd called, but when night rolled around, she was feeling uneasy. She checked the locks on her doors and windows for what felt like the hundredth time before settling in for another unproductive session of staring at her computer screen.
Her phone rang again at 11:59.
"Stop calling me," she snapped.
The voice ignored her. "Do you ever think about how quiet it was? How no one came to help?"
Claire's chest tightened. The grip of her fingers on the phone turned her knuckles white. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I want you to remember," the voice said, before hanging up.
Memories she had been suppressing for years now flooded her mind. She was sixteen, walking home late after having a fight with her best friend, taking a shortcut through the woods when she saw them: a man and a woman arguing. The woman had screamed, but Claire had run. She didn't stop running until she was safely in her room, shaking with fear. The next day, she heard the news: the woman, a local teacher, had been found dead.
Claire had convinced herself she hadn't seen anything useful, that going to the police would do no good. Now, it seemed someone knew she'd been there that night.
---
The third call came with a new twist.
"There's a house on Sycamore Street. You should check it out," the voice said.
"Why?" Claire asked. Her voice shook.
"Because someone's life depends on it."
The line went dead.
Claire hesitated, her fear at war with her curiosity. At last, she grabbed her coat and pepper spray, hopped in her car, and headed toward Sycamore Street. The house in question was old and ramshackle, its windows boarded up. A faint light flickered inside.
Claire's instincts were screaming at her to turn and run, but she leaned forward, her hand pushing open the door. The mildewy smell of decay hit her like a brick. In the center of the living room, a chair sat under a single, dangling bulb. Tied to the chair was a man, his face bruised and bloodied.
"Help me," he croaked.
Before Claire could even turn around, footsteps echoed from behind her. She spun around, but nobody was there. A voice, distorted and mechanical, resounded from somewhere in the shadows.
"Do you feel guilty yet, Claire?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" she yelled.
The voice chuckled. "You left her to die. Now you'll watch him suffer."
The bulb flickered and went out. When it flickered back to life, the chair was empty. The man had vanished.
---
The whole of the next day Claire sat at her computer, combing through archived news articles about the murder at Ridgefield High. She came across a photo of the victim-a smiling Ms. Evelyn Grant. Below the article was a photo of her husband, Peter, who had been arrested for the crime.
Her stomach would turn as she finally placed the man in the chair the night before as Peter Grant. But for what reason would this be such a valid prop to torture her?
At midnight, the ringing in her phone sounded again.
"Did you like the show?" the voice asked.
"Why are you doing this?" Claire demanded.
"You owe me," the voice spat back.
"Owe you what?"
"Justice."
Claire's blood ran cold. "Who are you?"
The line went dead, then she heard it-a low, haunting chuckle that traced her spine.
---
Determined to put an end to the nightmare, Claire finally traced the calls to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. She reached it as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the place in the clutches of gloomy darkness.
Inside, the air was heavy with silence. The living room walls were lined with framed photographs of Claire, taken without her knowledge. Some showed her walking to the grocery store, others sitting at her desk.
At the center of the room was a table with one item on it: a burner phone.
It rang.
Shaking, she picked it up. "What do you want from me?"
"You should've helped her," the voice said.
"Who are you?" Claire shrieked.
A faint creak resounded behind her. She turned to see a figure step out of the dark-a woman with sunken eyes and sallow skin.
It was Evelyn Grant.
"You can't be real," Claire whispered, stumbling backward.
Evelyn smiled coldly. "Real enough."
In a second, the door slammed shut behind Claire, trapping her inside. The last thing she heard was Evelyn's voice, low and chilling:
"Now it's your turn to run."
Rain lashed against the windowpanes of Claire Donovan's small apartment as she stared at the blinking cursor on the screen of her laptop. Two weeks were left for the deadline of her latest novel, and she hadn't typed a single word. The thrillers she was known for had grown stale, her creativity dulled by the monotony of small-town life.
The shrill ring of her phone startled her. Glancing at the clock, she frowned - it was nearly midnight.
"?Hello?" she answered hesitantly.
There was silence, then a faint crackle of static. Just as she was about to hang up, a voice low and deliberate spoke.
"Do you remember the woods behind Ridgefield High?"
Claire froze. Her heart was pounding. The woods behind her old high school were the last place on earth she wanted to think about. Something had happened there ten years ago-something she'd buried deep.
"Who is this?" she demanded, shaking.
"You already know," the voice responded before the line went dead.
Claire stared at the phone, her mind racing. It had to be a prank. Nobody knew about that night. She hadn't told a soul.
The next day, Claire tried to convince herself it was just some sick local teen who'd called, but when night rolled around, she was feeling uneasy. She checked the locks on her doors and windows for what felt like the hundredth time before settling in for another unproductive session of staring at her computer screen.
Her phone rang again at 11:59.
"Stop calling me," she snapped.
The voice ignored her. "Do you ever think about how quiet it was? How no one came to help?"
Claire's chest tightened. The grip of her fingers on the phone turned her knuckles white. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I want you to remember," the voice said, before hanging up.
Memories she had been suppressing for years now flooded her mind. She was sixteen, walking home late after having a fight with her best friend, taking a shortcut through the woods when she saw them: a man and a woman arguing. The woman had screamed, but Claire had run. She didn't stop running until she was safely in her room, shaking with fear. The next day, she heard the news: the woman, a local teacher, had been found dead.
Claire had convinced herself she hadn't seen anything useful, that going to the police would do no good. Now, it seemed someone knew she'd been there that night.
---
The third call came with a new twist.
"There's a house on Sycamore Street. You should check it out," the voice said.
"Why?" Claire asked. Her voice shook.
"Because someone's life depends on it."
The line went dead.
Claire hesitated, her fear at war with her curiosity. At last, she grabbed her coat and pepper spray, hopped in her car, and headed toward Sycamore Street. The house in question was old and ramshackle, its windows boarded up. A faint light flickered inside.
Claire's instincts were screaming at her to turn and run, but she leaned forward, her hand pushing open the door. The mildewy smell of decay hit her like a brick. In the center of the living room, a chair sat under a single, dangling bulb. Tied to the chair was a man, his face bruised and bloodied.
"Help me," he croaked.
Before Claire could even turn around, footsteps echoed from behind her. She spun around, but nobody was there. A voice, distorted and mechanical, resounded from somewhere in the shadows.
"Do you feel guilty yet, Claire?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" she yelled.
The voice chuckled. "You left her to die. Now you'll watch him suffer."
The bulb flickered and went out. When it flickered back to life, the chair was empty. The man had vanished.
---
The whole of the next day Claire sat at her computer, combing through archived news articles about the murder at Ridgefield High. She came across a photo of the victim-a smiling Ms. Evelyn Grant. Below the article was a photo of her husband, Peter, who had been arrested for the crime.
Her stomach would turn as she finally placed the man in the chair the night before as Peter Grant. But for what reason would this be such a valid prop to torture her?
At midnight, the ringing in her phone sounded again.
"Did you like the show?" the voice asked.
"Why are you doing this?" Claire demanded.
"You owe me," the voice spat back.
"Owe you what?"
"Justice."
Claire's blood ran cold. "Who are you?"
The line went dead, then she heard it-a low, haunting chuckle that traced her spine.
---
Determined to put an end to the nightmare, Claire finally traced the calls to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. She reached it as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the place in the clutches of gloomy darkness.
Inside, the air was heavy with silence. The living room walls were lined with framed photographs of Claire, taken without her knowledge. Some showed her walking to the grocery store, others sitting at her desk.
At the center of the room was a table with one item on it: a burner phone.
It rang.
Shaking, she picked it up. "What do you want from me?"
"You should've helped her," the voice said.
"Who are you?" Claire shrieked.
A faint creak resounded behind her. She turned to see a figure step out of the dark-a woman with sunken eyes and sallow skin.
It was Evelyn Grant.
"You can't be real," Claire whispered, stumbling backward.
Evelyn smiled coldly. "Real enough."
In a second, the door slammed shut behind Claire, trapping her inside. The last thing she heard was Evelyn's voice, low and chilling:
"Now it's your turn to run."
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