Latest / MYSTERY & HORROR STORIES / THE CALL THAT HAD NOT HAPPENED | A Terrifying Psychological Horror Story — Episode 1

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THE CALL THAT HAD NOT HAPPENED | A Terrifying Psychological Horror Story — Episode 1 · MYSTERY & HORROR STORIES

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  The one the call that had not happened at 2 13
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  a .m. Ethan Cole received a phone call from his
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  own number He almost ignored it the screen showed
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  his name his photograph and the same 10 -digit
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  number But he had used for 17 years But Ethan
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  was alone in the small apartment above his late
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  father's repair shop and his phone was already
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  in his hand It rang again answered for three
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  seconds There was only a faint clicking sound
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  like a clock trying to remember how to tick then
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  a man whispered Ethan listen carefully you have
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  less than an hour Ethan sat upright, the voice
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  was his own. Same low register, same slight rasp,
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  the same breath catching before a difficult sentence.
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  Yet it sounded older, worn down by sleepless
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  nights and a fear so deep it had become calm.
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  Who is this? Don't turn on the hallway light.
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  Ethan glanced at the apartment door, a thin line
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  of darkness lay beneath it. Beyond that door
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  was the narrow corridor leading to the stairs.
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  Then the shop below he had left the hallway light
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  on before going to bed. He always did his father
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  had taught him never to leave a dark stairwell
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  for someone to fall in. What kind of joke is
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  this? Ethan asked. I'm not joking in 47 minutes.
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  Someone will knock three times. Must not open
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  the door. Why? Because it will be me. The call
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  ended. Ethan stared at the screen. No incoming
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  call appeared in the lock. There was no duration,
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  no missed call, no record that the phone had
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  rung at all. He checked the number, his own number.
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  He checked the time, 2 14. Then he did what frightened
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  people often do when fear seems unreasonable.
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  He searched for an explanation. A glitch, a prank,
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  a strange app. Someone spoofing his number. The
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  possibilities lined up neatly in his mind, each
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  one more comforting than the last. He opened
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  the call settings, checked the recent activity,
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  and found nothing. From downstairs came a small
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  metallic tap. Ethan froze. His father's repair
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  shop had been closed for 11 months. Ever since
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  the old man died in his sleep at the workbench,
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  Ethan had kept the apartment above him, because
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  he could not bring himself to sell the building.
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  He still repaired clocks and radios when he could,
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  but he rarely entered the back room where his
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  father had spent his final night. Another tap
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  sounded below, then silence. Ethan approached
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  the apartment door and leaned toward the peephole.
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  The corridor was empty. The hallway light was
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  off. He knew he had left it on. His hand moved
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  toward the switch, but the caller's warning returned
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  with such force that he pulled back. He stepped
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  away and checked the time again. Two sixteen,
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  forty -four minutes. He tried calling his own
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  number from the landline beside his bed. The
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  line clicked once, then produced a tone unlike
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  any telephone sound he knew. A low, wavering
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  note that seemed to vibrate behind his teeth.
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  He hung up. The landline rang immediately. Ethan
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  did not touch it. It rang again on the third
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  ring. The answering machine clicked on by itself.
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  His father's voice filled the room, thin and
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  crackling from a message recorded years earlier.
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  Ethan, if you're hearing this, don't let the
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  shop answer the telephone after midnight. The
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  message stopped. Ethan had heard that recording
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  a hundred times. It was ordinary. His father
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  reminding him to lock the front door and check
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  the alarm. There had never been a sentence about
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  a telephone after midnight. He rewound the message
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  and played it again. Ethan, if you're hearing
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  this. Don't let the shop answer the telephone."
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  This time, a second voice spoke beneath his father's
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  words, almost too faint to hear. It's already
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  answered. Ethan unplugged the machine. The clicking
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  continued. It came from inside the wall beside
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  the bedroom door. Three dry clicks, a pause,
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  then three more. He pressed his palm against
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  the plaster. Something on the other side seemed
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  to be tapping back, matching the rhythm of his
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  heartbeat. He remembered that the repair shop's
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  old telephone, a heavy black instrument with
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  a brass bell, kept on the counter beneath a framed
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  photograph of his parents. His father had refused
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  to replace it. Even when the line became unreliable,
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  he claimed the phone had belonged to the building
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  longer than either of them. After the funeral,
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  Ethan had disconnected. He was certain of that,
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  yet the clicking from the wall had the unmistakable
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  rhythm of that brass bell beginning to ring.
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  At 221, the apartment lights flickered. The refrigerator
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  stopped humming. Somewhere below, a phone began
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  to ring. Slowly, insistently, as if the caller
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  had all the time in the world. Ethan took the
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  stairs, one step at a time. He carried a flashlight,
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  but could not switch it out. A thin glow came
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  from the shop's front window, though we had covered
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  it with dark pick -up elements only. The old
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  telephone. Someone stood behind Ethan. He knew
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  it without turning. The shop had gone silent,
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  and the ringing telephone had stopped at the
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  exact moment he reached the counter. In the dark
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  glass of the front window, a second silhouette
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  stood close to his shoulder. It was tall, narrow,
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  and perfectly still. Ethan raised the flashlight.
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  The silhouette did not move. He turned. No one
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  was there. Ethan backed away from the counter.
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  The old telephone sat beside his father's framed
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  photograph. Its severed cord lay coiled under
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  the wood, the copper wires exposed. The bell
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  began ringing again. He did not answer. A sheet
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  of paper slid from beneath the telephone, but
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  there was no draft. It was yellow with age, folded
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  twice, and addressed in his father's handwriting.
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  Ethan, read this before the third knock. His
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  throat tightened, he unfolded the note. If the
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  telephone rings after midnight, do not answer
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  it. If you hear your own voice, do not bully
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  it. If you see someone standing behind you, do
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  not throw it around until you can see their face
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  in the reflection. And if the caller tells you
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  the time, run to them. It is not telling you
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  what's going to happen. It's telling you how
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  long you have left. Ethan remembered that date.
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  It was the night his mother had disappeared.
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  He'd been 10 years old. His father told the police
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  she'd gone out in a storm and never returned.
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  Ethan had spent his adult life believing she
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  abandoned him. She did not leave the house! A
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  sharp knock came from the apartment stairs. Ethan
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  flinched one knock. As if. The third knock came
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  from the telephone. The bells stopped. A voice
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  emerged and it was even. The handset remained
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  in its cradle. Ethan. It was his father. Not
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  the thin. recorded voice in the answering machine.
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  His voice was clear, tight and full of enough
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  to sound as if the old man were standing at the
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  end of the countdown. Dad, Ethan whispered. Don't
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  let it see you. Where are you? I made a mistake.
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  I thought I could keep it in the walls. I thought
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  the shop was one of a way of mouse. Ethan gripped
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  the cat, talking to the cat. The lion cracked
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  open. The woman cried softly in the back. No
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  child's laughing. No child's voice asked. Is
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  he there yet? Listen to me. The person who calls
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  you is not from the future. It's something that
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  learned how to weigh the future at mass. You
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  can borrow a voice and then... The sentence made
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  no sense, Ethan wanted to mend it initially.
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  But a new sound rose from the ceiling, with small
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  footsteps descending your room. One second. The
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  telephone rang once. Father looked to see her.
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  That is not your mother. But the woman smiled.
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  The woman smiled, her lips moved from the cover
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  of her mouth. It was personal, can't be. Ethan
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  stopped something about the war or something.
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  She did not say it. He finished it. But the woman
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  looked away for a long time. Where did he go?
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  The woman smiled, speared. The sad call. And
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  they caught him with shots up to 30 at once.
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  The clock's hand spun, and stopped to receive
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  another shot. He found where he spoke from. He
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  said to Minister Bain, the woman in the stairwell,
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  held out the brass, the one you found on the
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  bottom. Behind her, the wall at the bottom of
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  the stairs began to crumble. A thin black line
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  appeared on the bottom, running from the floor
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  to the ceiling, but wider with the sand like
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  woods from the middle one. Either side door and
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  no door out of the way. A small brass key hold
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  one of his hands. He used both hands to start
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  the whistle at one final way in the middle. Whatever
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  happens, do not let it tell you what happened
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  one night. The line would get... The air grew
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  colder, even snowed wetter. He remembered his
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  father's seal on the back of his wings.