It was 2:17 a.m. when Rohan’s phone rang. The screen showed an unknown number, blank and silent, as if erased by something unseen. Half-
asleep, he answered. All he heard was breathing—slow, wet, and painfully close. Before he could speak, a whisper slid into his ear: “You shouldn’t have answered.” The call ended.
The phone rang again the next night. Same time. Same number. This time, the voice knew his secrets—things he had never told anyone. It
spoke of the accident on the highway, the man who died, and the truth Rohan buried in silence. His blood ran cold.
On the third night, the call came early. The voice sounded clearer, closer… angry. “I’m waiting outside.” Trembling, Rohan checked the call log. The number traced back to a phone declared inactive ten
years ago—belonging to the man who died in that accident.
Suddenly, his phone rang again. But this time, it was lying on the table—while the call vibrated
inside his pocket. From the dark corner of the room, a familiar voice whispered, “Now answer me… face to face.”
The line went dead. So did the lights.
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