The Last Call
Iβd just moved into the old apartment on 3rdβ―&β―Maple. The landlord handed me a landline that never rang. One night, the phone buzzed at 3β―a.m. I picked up, hearing static, then a whisper: βDid you find it yet?β
I frowned. βFind what?β
The voice, thin and hoarse, said, βThe picture. The one of the girl in the hallway. Sheβs waiting.β
I checked the hallway. A cracked frame hung by the stairwell, a faded Polaroid of a girl in a 70s dress, eyes blacked out. I took it down, feeling a cold draft. The phone rang again.
βDid you take her picture?β the voice asked.
I slammed the frame shut. βWho is this?β
Silence. Then a soft giggle, and the line clicked. The hallway lights flickered. The girl in the photo stepped out, her smile widening. She held a phone, its screen showing my name, βNew Resident.β
She whispered, βYouβre the next one to be framed.β The phone in my hand started dialing itself, the screen flashing: *CALLING βYOUβ*. I dropped it, and the hallway went dark, the picture now emptyβexcept for a fresh, tiny handprint in blood, right where my name should be.
Username: BibiBam
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