The first phone call came at 2:57 a.m.
I had finally drifted into a fragile, uneasy sleep after the terror of last night. The room was dark, too dark, like the shadows had thickened around me. My mind was floating somewhere between exhaustion and fear when my phone buzzed violently on my bedside table.
The screen lit up my room in a cold blue glow.
UNKNOWN CALLER
My heart didn't just beat — it slammed against my ribs.
For a moment, I stared at the vibrating phone, hoping it would just stop on its own.
But it didn't.
It kept ringing.
Ring.
Ring.
RING.
The sound was too sharp, too loud in the suffocating silence of my room. Each ring cut through the darkness like a blade. I swallowed hard, trying to convince myself not to pick it up.
But my hand moved on its own.
I answered.
I didn't speak.
I couldn't.
On the other end, there was nothing — just a long stretch of silence.
But it wasn't empty.
No, it was thick, heavy, like someone was breathing into the phone, slow and steady.
I pressed the phone to my ear.
"Hello…?"
Silence.
But not quite.
There it was — a faint inhale.
Then an exhale.
A slow, raspy breath that slid into my ear like cold fingers.
"Who is this?" I whispered.
No answer.
Just… breathing.
My throat tightened. My hands trembled so violently the phone nearly slipped from my grip.
"Stop calling me," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Please…"
Still nothing.
Then —
Very faint. Barely audible.
A sound.
Not words.
Not exactly.
A soft, drawn-out exhale shaped like the beginning of a word.
"J… e…"
I hung up immediately, my hands flying to my mouth to stop the scream that rose inside me.
My whole body shook uncontrollably. I curled up on the bed, hugging my knees to my chest, staring at the phone like it had become a living creature, one that could whisper my name at any moment.
I didn't sleep again that night.
The Next Morning
When I came downstairs, my mother looked at me with mild concern.
"You look exhausted. Headache?"
"No," I whispered. "I… I got a phone call last night."
"From who?" my father asked, barely looking up from his mug.
"I don't know. An unknown number. They didn't speak, they just…"
I hesitated.
How could I explain the breathing?
The whisper?
The feeling of being hunted through a phone line?
"They just breathed," I said finally.
My father blinked, unimpressed.
"Probably some prank call. Kids do that. Block the number."
"I already did…" I lied.
Because I hadn't blocked anything.
Something deep inside me whispered that blocking him wouldn't matter.
"Try to get more rest," my mother said gently. "You're frightening yourself."
Frightening myself.
It was almost funny.
As if I had imagined the shadows outside my window.
As if I had imagined the messages.
As if I had invented the voice forming the beginning of my name through the phone.
No. This wasn't imagination.
Something — or someone — was reaching for me.
And the calls were only the next step.
The Second Call
It came the next night.
2:59 a.m.
Two minutes later than the previous call.
I stared at the glowing screen.
UNKNOWN CALLER
It was like he knew I was awake.
Waiting.
Terrified.
I told myself not to pick up.
Not this time.
Not again.
But my hand was already moving.
"Hello?" I whispered.
Silence.
Then —
Ssshhhhhhhhhhhhh.
That sound.
A long exhale, like someone pressing their lips near the microphone, telling me to be quiet.
My whole body froze.
"You need to stop calling me," I said. "I'm going to the police if you don't stop."
Another breath.
Slow.
Deep.
Then I heard something that made every hair on my body stand on end:
A soft tapping.
Not from the phone.
No.
The tapping was coming from my window.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I dropped the phone. It landed on the blanket but I could still hear the faint breathing from it.
I slowly turned my head toward the window.
The curtain was slightly open.
And behind it —
A shadow.
A silhouette.
A figure standing inches away from the glass.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't scream.
I could only stare.
The tapping continued, perfectly in sync with the breathing on the phone.
Tap…
Breath…
Tap…
Breath…
My mind finally snapped into action.
I lunged forward, grabbed the curtain, and yanked it closed.
Silence.
Total silence.
The breathing on the phone stopped.
The tapping stopped.
The presence — whatever it was — faded away.
I hung up the call, shaking uncontrollably.
The Morning After
I thought it was over.
But when I woke up — far later than usual — I saw something on my bedroom floor that made my stomach twist violently.
My phone.
Face down.
Even though I had left it under my pillow after the call.
I picked it up slowly, afraid of what I'd find.
The call log showed something impossible:
The unknown number had called me again. At 4:13 a.m.
I never heard it ring.
I hadn't answered.
But the duration was listed:
00:01:52
A minute and fifty-two seconds.
Which meant…
That while I slept — or while I thought I slept —
someone had answered the call for me.
My hands went cold.
Then something else happened.
A new message notification popped up at the top of my screen.
Unknown Number: "You should sleep with the window locked tonight."
My throat tightened.
My legs felt weak.
I checked my window.
It was unlocked.
I hadn't unlocked it.
I didn't remember touching it at all.
Someone else had.
The Breaking Point
By afternoon, I was a mess.
I jumped at every sound.
Flinched when my phone vibrated.
Checked the windows every ten seconds.
At one point, my mother tried to touch my shoulder.
I screamed so loudly she dropped the plate she was holding.
"Jenny…" she said softly. "What's happening to you?"
I opened my mouth but the words tangled.
Because… what was I supposed to say?
That someone was watching me through my windows?
Calling me at night?
Whispering my name through the phone?
Leaving messages?
They would think I was losing my mind.
Maybe I was.
Or maybe —
Maybe I was seeing a world that everyone else couldn't.
The Third Call
That night, I refused to sleep.
I sat against my wall, knees pulled up, my room illuminated by my bedside lamp. The window was locked, triple-checked, with my dresser pushed partially in front of it.
At 3:00 a.m. exactly — the witching hour —
the phone rang.
UNKNOWN CALLER
I answered with shaking hands.
This time, the breathing was louder.
Closer.
Like the mouth was pressed right against the microphone.
I held my breath.
After a moment, a faint sound drifted through the line —
a soft scrape… like a fingernail dragging across something hard.
Then a whisper.
Very soft.
Barely audible.
But unmistakable.
"Jenny…"
I clamped a hand over my mouth. Tears streamed down my face.
Then —
A low chuckle.
But it was wrong.
Not normal.
It sounded distorted, as if someone were laughing deep underwater.
"I don't know who you are," I forced out. "Stop. STOP!"
The chuckling stopped instantly.
Then I heard it:
A faint shifting sound…
coming from inside my room.
Not from the phone.
From the closet.
I turned my head slowly.
The closet door was slightly open.
Just an inch.
Just enough for someone to look through.
My hands shook violently. "Who's there?" I whispered.
Silence.
Complete, suffocating silence.
Then the voice on the phone whispered:
"I am."
I screamed and threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor, the call ending with a sharp beep.
I bolted out of my room, down the stairs, and into my parents' bedroom, sobbing hysterically.
They woke up immediately, alarmed.
"Jenny, what's going on?" my father demanded.
"I'm being watched!" I cried. "Someone's calling me— whispering— he's in my closet— he knows my name—"
My father rushed upstairs, anger replacing concern. He flung open my closet door and searched the entire room while my mother held me tightly, murmuring something I couldn't process.
There was nothing in the closet.
Nothing under the bed.
Nothing outside the window.
Nothing on my phone.
Nothing they could see.
Only what I saw.
Only what I heard.
And Then Came the Final Message
The next day, my parents insisted I stay home from school, thinking I needed rest. I stayed in the living room all morning, refusing to go upstairs.
In the late afternoon, I finally gathered the courage to enter my room to grab some clothes.
Everything was exactly as I left it.
Except for one thing.
On my pillow.
A note.
Folded perfectly into a square.
My blood ran cold.
My feet felt rooted to the ground.
I approached slowly, my heart pounding in my throat.
I picked it up.
The handwriting was jagged, but unmistakably familiar.
Only three words.
Words that felt like a death sentence.
"ANSWER TONIGHT. ALONE."
And before I could even scream —
My phone buzzed.
A new text message.
Unknown Number: "I'll knock."
I dropped the phone.
My knees buckled.
My vision blurred.
Because now it was no longer just calls.
Not just breathing.
Not just watching.
Tonight, he wanted more.
Tonight, he wasn't just a voice.
Tonight…
He was coming.