I was lying in bed, trying to justify ordering a second pizza, when my old landline phone rang. Who even uses a landline anymore?
I picked it up. A low, ragged whisper came across the line.
"I need you to open the door."
"Who is this?" I asked, already annoyed. The whisper was too close, too desperate.
"It's me. You know me. Please, I can't breathe out here. Open the door and let me in."
I looked out my window. The streetlights were flickering. "Look, you have the wrong number," I said, putting a little force into my voice.
The whisper laughed—a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement.
"I don't have the wrong number," it rasped. "I'm not calling a number at all. I'm calling you."
Then, the receiver went cold, and I heard a heavy, sickening thud—not over the phone, but from the inside of my own locked bedroom closet.
I dropped the phone. The noise came again: a slow, dragging sound, getting closer to the door.
I backed away, staring at the closet door. That's when I realized the whisper was right. I did know that voice.
It was my own voice, raw with a fear I hadn't felt yet
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