She Answered a Stranger’s Call—And Vanished

It was just past 9:00 p.m. when Sarah’s phone buzzed. She was halfway through her nightly skincare routine, a clay mask half-dried on her face, and her favorite true crime podcast playing in the background. Her phone flashed a number she didn’t recognize—no name, no saved contact. Normally, she wouldn’t have answered, but something about the moment felt… off. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fate.

She hesitated, then tapped Accept.

“Hello?” she said, wiping her hand on a towel.

Silence.

“Is this Sarah?” a man’s voice finally asked. Calm, even-toned. Not aggressive—but not friendly, either.

“Yes… who is this?”

The line went dead.

A chill passed through her. She stared at the screen. No voicemail, no message. Just silence and that odd, lingering feeling in her chest—like a warning.

She shook it off, assuming it was a scam or a misdial. But five minutes later, her phone buzzed again. Same number.

She answered immediately. “Look, who is this?”

“Don’t go outside tonight,” the voice said flatly. “Just trust me.”

The line cut.

Now her hands were shaking. She tried calling the number back. It rang once—then nothing. Her mind raced with possibilities. Was this someone she knew? A prank? Or something worse?

Sarah lived alone in a modest apartment on the edge of the city. Her job as a freelance graphic designer gave her flexibility, but also long, quiet hours at home. She wasn’t paranoid by nature, but tonight, everything felt distorted. The familiar creaks in her floor. The hum of the fridge. The distant barking of a dog.

At 9:45, she got another message. This time, a text.

“Please. Don’t leave your apartment tonight. You’re being watched.”

She called the police. They told her it was likely a scam—people using spoofed numbers to mess with others, sometimes trying to scare them into revealing information. “Don’t respond. Block the number,” the officer said.

It sounded reasonable. It was reasonable. But the unease didn't go away.

Sarah locked every window, pulled down the blinds, and made herself some tea—anything to feel normal again. She settled onto the couch and turned on a movie to distract herself.

That’s when she noticed something new. A soft light flickering through the bottom of her front door. Movement.

Her building’s hallway was usually dark. Tenants complained constantly about the broken overhead light outside her door. She hadn’t seen it work in months.

She turned off her TV, creeping toward the peephole. A man in a dark hoodie stood in the hallway, facing her door.

Not moving.

Just standing.

She backed away, heart pounding so loudly it echoed in her ears. Her mind jumped to that voice. “You’re being watched.”

She called the police again.

This time, they took it seriously. A unit was dispatched.

By the time the officers arrived fifteen minutes later, the hallway was empty. No sign of the man. No one had been buzzed in through the main door. No camera in the hallway. Just that flickering light—now off again.

They took her statement and offered to send someone by in the morning. Sarah thanked them and stayed up the rest of the night.

The next day, things returned to normal—or so it seemed. No more calls. No messages. Nothing suspicious. Her friends chalked it up to a weird scam and a strange coincidence. “You watch too many crime shows,” they laughed.

Sarah tried to laugh with them. She wanted to move on.

But a week later, she was gone.

Her landlord found the door to her apartment ajar during a routine maintenance check. Her phone was on the kitchen counter. Her laptop was still open. A cup of tea, half-drunk, had grown cold.

There was no sign of a struggle.

Security footage showed nothing. The camera by the front entrance had mysteriously gone offline an hour before her last known online activity.

The police opened a missing person case. Her friends put up posters. People online speculated wildly—some blamed human trafficking, others mental illness. A few whispered about the phone call she’d gotten the week before.

But the case eventually went cold.

Until one day, three months later, her best friend, Leah, got a message from a private number:

“She shouldn’t have answered. Now you shouldn’t either.”