The Silent Caller

The rain poured down in sheets as Emma drove along the empty country road, squinting through the fogged-up windshield. She’d lost cell service miles back, and her car’s GPS had glitched out. Typical for a night like this, she thought, sighing. She just wanted to get to her friend’s cabin before the storm worsened.

A few miles ahead, she noticed an old payphone booth on the side of the road, glowing faintly in the downpour. She glanced at her phone—still no bars. Hoping the payphone might work, Emma pulled over, grabbing her coat and dashing through the rain toward the booth.

The glass door creaked as she stepped inside, the faint smell of mildew filling her nose. She lifted the receiver, half expecting silence, but to her surprise, there was a dial tone.

Emma dug into her pockets for change, then froze when the phone suddenly crackled. A soft, distant voice echoed through the line.

“…Emma…”

She pulled the receiver away from her ear, startled. “Hello?”

The line was silent for a moment, then the voice whispered again, closer this time.

“…Emma… come home…”

A chill ran down her spine. It sounded like her mother’s voice, but her mother had been gone for five years. She had died in this very area, on a night not so different from this one.

Emma’s fingers trembled as she gripped the receiver. “Who is this?”

The voice didn’t answer, but the static grew louder, almost like breathing. The faint smell of her mother’s perfume—a hint of lavender—filled the small booth, and Emma’s chest tightened.

“Mom?” she whispered, heart pounding.

The voice whispered again, soft but insistent. “…Come… home…”

Emma’s legs felt rooted to the ground. “But… you’re gone,” she stammered.

There was a silence, then a cold, hollow laugh drifted through the line, chilling her to the bone. The laugh didn’t sound like her mother anymore. It was deeper, more sinister.

She tried to hang up, but her hand wouldn’t obey. The receiver felt glued to her ear, as if some unseen force were holding it in place. The voice returned, low and mocking.

“You didn’t come that night, did you?”

Emma’s throat went dry. Memories flooded back—the night her mother had called, asking for help, asking her to come quickly. But Emma hadn’t made it in time. Her mother had died on the roadside in the storm, alone.

Tears streamed down Emma’s face. “I’m sorry… I tried.”

The laugh grew louder, the static rising until it was nearly deafening. She closed her eyes, trying to pull away, but her body felt paralyzed. The booth grew colder, and she could see her breath fogging the glass.

The voice grew harsh, angry. “Come… with… me…”

A sudden tug pulled her toward the booth’s glass door, which now showed a reflection not of her own face, but of her mother’s, pale and gaunt, eyes hollow. The hand on the other side of the glass pressed against hers, a frigid touch that seemed to seep into her bones.

Emma’s vision blurred, the edges of her consciousness dimming. She felt herself being pulled deeper, as if the voice was drawing her away, somewhere dark and endless.

When a passing driver spotted the abandoned car the next morning, there was no sign of Emma. The payphone receiver hung, gently swaying in the wind, as if someone had just let go. And, faintly, the next person who stopped to investigate could swear they heard the soft whisper of her voice, calling out from somewhere far, far away.