The Midnight Caller

Start writing...Detective Sam Harris sat in his cramped office, staring at the flickering light above his desk. It had been a slow week for the small town of Cormack, and the usual humdrum of missing pets and minor break-ins had left him yearning for something more substantial. His coffee was cold, and the papers on his desk were piled up in a half-hearted attempt at organization.
The clock struck midnight, breaking the stillness of the room. The sound was followed by a sudden, shrill ring from the landline on his desk. Sam blinked, momentarily disoriented. He rarely received calls at this hour, especially not in Cormack, a town so quiet that even the police station shut down by 10 p.m.
"Detective Harris," he answered gruffly, his voice thick with sleep.
A breathy voice came through the line, hushed and frantic. "You need to come to the old church on Redwood Hill. It's happening tonight. You have to stop them."
The line went dead before Sam could respond. He sat frozen, staring at the receiver in his hand. The old church on Redwood Hill was a place of local legends—abandoned for years, the crumbling building had become a point of fascination for thrill-seekers and paranormal enthusiasts. But no one in town had ever claimed to have seen anything unusual there.
Sam stood, grabbing his jacket and hat, trying to shake the creeping sense of dread that washed over him. It wasn’t like him to jump at shadows, but something in that call—something about the urgency in the voice—wasn’t right.
The drive up to Redwood Hill was eerily quiet. The streets were empty, save for the occasional dog barking or the rustling of wind through the trees. The headlights of his car illuminated the path ahead, the shadows stretching long and unsettling. As he neared the hill, the silhouette of the old church loomed in the distance, its spires reaching toward the sky like fingers from a forgotten grave.
He parked his car at the base of the hill and began the steep walk toward the church. The air grew colder as he ascended, the wind carrying an unsettling hum through the trees. The once-grand structure stood before him, shrouded in darkness. The stained-glass windows, though cracked and broken, seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight.
Sam pushed open the creaking door and stepped inside. The air smelled of mildew and decay, but there was something else—something metallic, like blood. He scanned the interior, but the church was empty. No signs of activity. No mysterious figures waiting in the shadows. Just the silence of abandonment.
Then he heard it. A soft scraping noise, coming from behind the altar.
Sam moved cautiously toward the source of the sound. As he approached, he noticed a figure hunched over something on the ground, their back to him. The figure didn’t move or acknowledge his presence. Sam’s hand instinctively reached for his gun, but before he could draw it, the figure turned toward him.
It was a woman, her face pale and gaunt, her eyes wide with terror. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, a low, guttural sound filled the room, like the growl of some beast. Sam recoiled, his instincts screaming at him to run.
"Who are you?" he demanded, trying to steady his voice.
The woman didn’t answer. Instead, her gaze shifted toward something on the ground—a pile of old, tattered books and papers. The growling noise intensified, reverberating off the walls, growing louder and more frantic. Sam’s heart pounded in his chest as he bent down to inspect the pile.
A leather-bound book caught his attention. It was old, its pages yellowed with age, but something about it seemed... familiar. He flipped it open, and as he did, a cold wind rushed through the church, blowing out the candles and causing the pages to flip wildly.
In the dim light, Sam saw the words written across the pages: The Ritual of Redemption. He had heard of such things before—whispers among the locals about a cult that once practiced dark rituals in the church, performing strange ceremonies to summon the unknown. But those were just stories, weren't they?
Before he could make sense of it, the woman’s eyes locked onto his, her pupils dilating. She suddenly lurched forward, her body jerking unnaturally as if controlled by some unseen force. Sam stumbled backward, dropping the book.
It was then that he realized the truth: the call hadn’t been meant for him to stop something from happening. It had been a warning—for him. The ritual was already in motion, and he was the final piece needed to complete it.
A cold hand gripped his shoulder, and Sam turned to find himself face-to-face with the last thing he had ever expected.
A shadow—no, a man, tall and thin, his face hidden beneath a hood. He whispered one final phrase, “You’ve been chosen, detective.”
The last thing Sam Harris heard before the world went dark was the sound of his own name, called by an unfamiliar voice.
The next morning, the police found the church empty—no sign of Sam, no trace of the woman, no evidence of anything strange. The only thing they discovered was the old book, lying open on the altar. The words written inside were clear: The Midnight Caller was the key.
And so, the mystery of Detective Sam Harris's disappearance remained unsolved, his fate sealed by an ancient ritual that no one truly understood.