The Seventh Caller
August 15, 2025
Jared worked the graveyard shift at WZRT 94.7, “The Buzz.”
From midnight to 4 a.m., he ran a request-and-dedication show for the sleepless, lonely, and downright weird.
His boss told him, “If you get to seven calls in a night, the phone goes quiet. Happens every time. Don’t ask why.”
Jared thought it was just a joke.
On his first Tuesday shift, he got five calls in the first hour.
Caller One wanted Metallica.
Caller Two wanted advice on whether ghosts could smell.
Caller Three dedicated a song to their cat.
Caller Four just breathed into the line for thirty seconds.
Caller Five hung up before speaking.
At 2:14 a.m., the sixth call came in.
“WZRT, you’re live,” Jared said.
A man’s voice whispered, “Don’t take the seventh.”
Before Jared could reply, the line went dead.
At 3:01 a.m., the seventh call came.
“WZRT, this is Jared—”
“You sound different tonight,” the voice said. It was soft, wet, like the words were being spoken through water.
“Who is this?”
“You’ll know soon.”
Click.
The next night, it happened again. Six calls, then the seventh from the same voice.
This time it said, “The others are already here.”
Jared asked his coworker Maria about it. She frowned.
“You’ve gotten a seventh call? Already?”
“Yeah. Why?”
She leaned in. “You only get so many before they stop being just voices.”
By the third night, Jared was nervous.
Six calls, then—
“You can see us now, can’t you?” the seventh caller asked.
Jared looked toward the glass separating the booth from the empty lobby.
It wasn’t empty.
Figures stood just beyond the shadows. Tall. Motionless. Their heads tilted toward him like they were listening.
He hung up. The figures didn’t move.
By Friday, he had a plan: after the sixth call, he’d unplug the phone.
It didn’t work.
At 3:00 a.m., the phone rang anyway.
He didn’t answer.
The voicemail light blinked.
When he played it back, the seventh caller whispered, “That counts.”
Saturday night, the voice said, “You’ll be the one calling soon.”
When Jared glanced at the lobby, the figures were closer. He could see their faces now—each one was his.
By Sunday, he was ready to quit.
Six calls came and went.
Then the seventh.
“Where are you right now?” the voice asked.
“I’m not answering you anymore.”
The voice chuckled. “You already did.”
The booth door swung open.
The figures stepped inside.
Each one lifted a phone to its ear.
At 4:02 a.m., Maria arrived for her shift. The booth was empty.
The phone rang.
It was the first call of the night.
When she answered, Jared’s voice was on the other end.
“This is my seventh,” he said.