Don’t Answer
April 4, 2025
The phone rang for the third time that night.
Jessica stared at it from across the living room. It was the old landline her landlord insisted had to stay plugged in “for emergencies.” She hadn’t given the number to anyone.
It rang again. Same time as before: 3:13 a.m.
She stepped closer.
“Probably a prank,” she muttered, though her voice wavered.
It rang again.
On the sixth ring, she picked it up.
“Hello?”
Silence. Then a faint crackle, like a distant fire.
“Jessica,” a voice finally whispered. It was hoarse. Male. Not familiar. “Don’t answer next time.”
Her stomach dropped. “Who is this?”
The line clicked dead.
She yanked the cord from the wall.
That should’ve been the end of it.
The next night, 3:13 a.m.
Ring. Ring.
Jessica shot up in bed.
“No way,” she whispered.
She tiptoed into the living room. The phone was still unplugged. Still sitting on the floor. But it was ringing.
She stared at it like it might bite.
Ring.
She picked it up, hands shaking. “What do you want?”
“I told you not to answer,” the voice said, closer this time. Louder. “Now it knows.”
She slammed the receiver down.
Her apartment lights flickered.
Something moved behind her—just past the edge of the kitchen.
She spun around. “Who’s there?!”
No answer. Just a hum, like something mechanical—or alive—buzzing in her ears.
Night three.
Jessica didn’t sleep. She stayed up with every light in the apartment on. She even left music playing. Normal things. Loud, happy, living things.
But at 3:13 a.m., the music stopped.
The lights died.
And the phone rang.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
She tried to ignore it, pressing her hands to her ears.
The ringing grew louder, like it was inside her skull.
“MAKE IT STOP!” she screamed.
It stopped.
She opened her eyes.
The phone was in her hand.
She didn’t remember picking it up.
The voice was breathing.
“Too late now,” it rasped.
“What do you mean?! What knows?!”
There was a pause, then a different voice—higher, wrong somehow—whispered, “We do.”
A soft click came from behind her.
She turned.
The front door was open.
Jessica ran for it, but something was already inside.
She screamed.
They found her the next morning.
No signs of forced entry. No fingerprints. Nothing stolen.
Just the unplugged phone sitting on the floor.
It rang once while the police were there.
The rookie officer laughed nervously. “Creepy old tech.”
He picked it up.
“Hello?”
His face drained of color.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “She’s here now.”
He hung up.
The other officer raised an eyebrow. “Who was that?”
The rookie smiled—a little too wide. “Wrong number.”
He walked away, whistling a tune no one recognized.
The lights flickered.
The phone started ringing again.