06/12/2024
The Midnight Caller
Copyright ©️ Debarpan Coomar
It started as a whisper.
Mira had always felt a strange energy in her new apartment. The 1920s building stood stoic, towering over the crumbling neighborhood like a forgotten sentinel. At first, she dismissed the subtle creaks and groans as the quirks of old architecture. But then, the phone calls began.
Every night at precisely 12:03 a.m., her phone would ring. The number was always “Unknown.” Mira, thinking it was a prank, never picked up. The calls, however, persisted. By the fifth night, her curiosity got the better of her.
The new tenant, Rachel, was a young artist looking for inspiration. The old building’s charm and low rent had drawn her in, despite the strange feeling she got when she first toured the place. The landlord had brushed off her concerns with a practiced smile. “Just creaky old bones,” he’d said.
On her first night, Rachel unpacked in silence, the apartment heavy with an unnatural stillness. At exactly 12:03 a.m., her phone buzzed. The screen displayed “Unknown Caller.”
She hesitated, her finger hovering over the “Decline” button. But curiosity won out.
“Hello?”
There was no static this time, only a deep, rhythmic breathing. Then a voice—cold, measured. “You’re not safe here.”
Copyright ©️ Debarpan Coomar
Rachel’s breath hitched. “Who is this?”
No answer. The line went dead.
Shaken but determined not to let fear consume her, Rachel chalked it up to a prank. She locked the door, double-checked the windows, and went to bed. But sleep was elusive. The faint hum of the city outside felt distant, replaced by the creaks and groans of the apartment, each sound sharper in the dark.
Over the next few days, Rachel noticed strange things. Objects weren’t where she left them. Her keys, always on the kitchen counter, now found in the bathroom. Her paintings, once vibrant, seemed to fade overnight.
And then, the calls returned.
Copyright ©️ Debarpan Coomar
Every night at 12:03 a.m., like clockwork. Each time, the voice grew more insistent. “Leave. While you can.”
Rachel reached out to the landlord, who brushed off her concerns. But a neighbor, an elderly woman named Mrs. Holloway, pulled her aside. “You need to know the truth, dear.”
Mrs. Holloway explained the building’s dark history. Tenants disappearing. The phone calls. And the man—Daniel Clarke.
“They say he made a pact,” Mrs. Holloway whispered. “To trap souls. To keep himself tethered. He’s still here, you know. In the walls. Watching.”
Rachel didn’t know whether to believe her, but the fear in the woman’s eyes was undeniable. That night, Rachel resolved to stay awake until the call came. At 12:03, the phone rang.
“What do you want from me?” Rachel demanded.
This time, the voice was different. Familiar. A woman. “Help us. Break the cycle.”
Rachel’s pulse quickened. “How?”
Static. Then, a single word: “Basement.”
Copyright ©️ Debarpan Coomar
Gathering her courage, Rachel grabbed a flashlight and made her way down. The basement was colder than she’d imagined, the air thick with dampness. She followed the sound of faint whispers, leading her to the same rusted door Sam had found.
Inside, the rotary phone sat in the middle of the floor, silent now. Rachel felt a presence behind her, but she didn’t turn.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
A low chuckle echoed. Daniel’s voice, taunting. “You should be.”
Rachel closed her eyes, focusing on the whispers, on the energy in the room. She reached out and touched the phone, its cold surface vibrating under her hand. The whispers grew louder, forming a chant.
Suddenly, the door burst open. A blinding light filled the room, and the air crackled with energy. Rachel felt herself being pulled, her mind slipping away. But then, a hand—warm, steady—grabbed hers.
“Hold on!” Mira’s voice, clear and strong.
Rachel gripped tightly as the light consumed the room. There was a final, ear-piercing scream, and then… silence.
Copyright ©️ Debarpan Coomar
When Rachel opened her eyes, she was back in her apartment. The phone was gone. The air felt lighter, the oppressive weight lifted.
A week later, Rachel moved out, leaving behind her final painting—a depiction of a woman standing in light, holding back the shadows. Beneath it, she’d written:
“It ends with me.”
But in the quiet of the night, as the building stood still, a faint ringing could still be heard from deep within the walls.
At exactly 12:03 a.m.
“Hello?” she whispered into the receiver, her voice shaky.
At first, there was only static. Then a faint voice emerged—a woman’s voice, distant and pleading. “Help me. He’s here.”
Mira’s blood ran cold. She hung up immediately, heart pounding. The rational part of her brain screamed prank. But deep down, something felt… wrong.
The next day, Mira confided in her friend, Sam. He laughed it off. “Probably some weirdo playing games,” he said, but offered to stay the night.
That night, as the clock struck 12:03, the phone rang. Sam urged her to ignore it, but Mira answered.
“Help me. He’s coming for you too.” The voice was clearer now, filled with desperation. Before Mira could respond, the line went dead.
Sam’s face turned pale. “You heard that, right?”
The next few nights were worse. The calls became more frequent. The voice grew more desperate. And the static—there was something odd about it. Mira began recording the calls, trying to make sense of the noise.
One evening, while analyzing the recordings, Mira discovered something chilling. Hidden within the static were words. A name: Ava Grant.
A quick search revealed that Ava Grant had lived in Mira’s apartment… and disappeared without a trace in 1985. The case had gone cold.
Mira’s obsession deepened. She spent hours poring over old newspapers and police reports. Every detail pointed to the building, her apartment, and an elusive man named Daniel Clarke, a handyman with a sinister reputation.
The next call came differently. No static. No plea. Just a man’s voice: “You shouldn’t have looked, Mira.”
The line went dead.
Mira’s world spiraled. Shadows in the apartment grew darker. Footsteps echoed at odd hours. Doors opened and closed on their own. Sam insisted she leave, but Mira felt tethered. Ava needed her.
On the final night, Mira set up a camera. She waited, phone in hand. At 12:03, the call came. This time, she didn’t answer. Instead, she watched.
The footage revealed something horrifying. As the phone rang, a figure materialized behind her—a gaunt man in overalls, his face obscured. He stood there, watching Mira, as she sat unaware.
The next morning, Mira was gone. The apartment lay silent, save for the faint buzz of her phone, which rang at precisely 12:03 a.m.
Sam picked up.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice whispered: “Help me. He’s here.”
Sam froze, the phone cold against his ear. The voice was unmistakably Mira’s. But something about it was… off. Hollow. Faint, as if coming from far away.
“Mira? Where are you? What’s going on?” he asked, panic rising in his chest.
“He’s coming for you too.”
The line cut to static. Sam sat in stunned silence, staring at the phone. The room felt colder, shadows stretching longer than they should. He glanced at the door to the hallway, now slightly ajar. He hadn’t left it open.
Determined not to fall into the same spiral as Mira, Sam did the only thing he could think of: he called the police. Two officers arrived and searched the apartment. Nothing. No signs of struggle, no forced entry. Just an eerie stillness that made the hair on the back of their necks stand up.
As the officers prepared to leave, one of them stopped and looked at Sam. “You should move,” he said, voice low.
“Why?” Sam asked, heart pounding.
“Because you’re not the first.” The officer hesitated before continuing. “This apartment has a history. People go missing. The woman before Mira, Ava Grant… same thing. Same room. Same phone calls.”
Sam didn’t sleep that night. He packed a bag, planning to leave the next morning. But something gnawed at him—a need to understand what had happened to Mira. He opened her laptop, which she had left behind, and found her notes on Ava Grant. One entry caught his attention: “Daniel Clarke. Last seen in the basement.”
Against his better judgment, Sam decided to investigate. The building’s basement was a labyrinth of old storage rooms and boiler equipment, the air damp and heavy. As he descended, the fluorescent lights flickered, casting strange shadows on the cracked walls.
He reached the far end of the basement, where a rusted door stood slightly ajar. Inside was a small, windowless room. On the floor, covered in dust, was a phone—an old rotary model. It began to ring.
Sam’s instincts screamed at him to run, but he couldn’t move. His hand, trembling, lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end was no longer Mira’s. It was deeper, rougher. “You’ve come too far, Sam.”
Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind him. Sam turned, but there was no handle. The walls seemed to close in, the air growing colder. Then, out of the darkness, a figure emerged.
Daniel Clarke.
His face was pale, eyes sunken and hollow. His lips twisted into a cruel smile as he stepped closer. Sam backed against the wall, heart racing.
“What do you want?” Sam shouted.
Daniel’s voice was a whisper, yet it filled the room. “To keep you. Like the others.”
The lights flickered once more, then went out completely. The last thing Sam heard was the phone ringing again, and Mira’s voice whispering:
“I’m sorry, Sam. It never ends.”
Sam was never seen again.
A week later, the apartment was rented to a new tenant. On their first night, at exactly 12:03 a.m., the phone rang.
