Update: The Concession Stand Calls

UPDATE: The phone rang today… but this time, it wasn’t just the boy on the line.

So, I wasn’t planning on updating because, honestly, I thought people would call BS, but a bunch of you asked for more details. And then something happened today that I can’t keep to myself.

I’m running on maybe three hours of sleep. I tried switching to mid-shifts, but my manager put me back on opening this morning because the college kids “keep messing up the popcorn ratios.” Whatever.

I got to the theater around 8:45 AM. Super quiet. Lights half on. The whole place had that weird stale-butter smell that hits after the machines have cooled overnight.

I walked past the concession counter and — I swear — the landline receiver wasn’t on the hook.

It was dangling.

Just swinging slightly, like someone had picked it up and dropped it minutes before I walked in.

That thing never moves. It weighs like five pounds and the cord is stiff as hell. To have it hanging meant someone physically lifted it.

We weren’t even open.

I put it back, trying not to think about it. Then I started my usual opening routine: counting cash drawers, heating the popper, checking fridge temps. Everything felt off. Like the air was too thick.

At 9:12 AM — I know because I checked the clock — the landline rang.

Not the ring from before.

This time it sounded… wrong.

Slower. Like the ring was being stretched, pulled apart. Almost like it didn’t want to ring at all.

I answered.

There was breathing. But not the boy. This breathing was deeper. Raspy. Like someone who’s been smoking for thirty years.

I said hello twice.

Then a voice — low, adult, angry — said:

“He’s not talking to you anymore.”

Just that.

Cold. Final.

I froze so hard my fingers cramped around the receiver. When I tried to respond, the line filled with this crackling distortion. Not static. Something more organic. Like the sound of something wet being dragged across concrete.

And underneath all of that…

A sob.

Very faint.

A little boy crying.

I felt sick. Actually dizzy. Like something was wrong with the air around me.

The voice came back, closer this time:

“Stop answering.”

And then the line cut.

I didn’t move for a solid minute.

When I finally set the phone down, I noticed something on the counter. A small grease mark — like the imprint of a little hand. The size of a child’s palm. Perfectly formed. Smudged with what looked like old butter.

But here’s the part that’s making me consider quitting on the spot:

About an hour later, customers started coming in for the early matinee. Nothing weird. Just normal people getting popcorn and Icees.

Then a woman with her son — maybe six years old — walked up.

The boy stopped dead when he saw the landline.

His mom kept ordering, but he just stared at the phone, wide-eyed, gripping the counter with both hands. After a few seconds, he asked:

“Mom… why is the crying phone here?”

Every hair on my body stood up.

I asked him what he meant.

He wouldn’t look away from the landline.

He said, very softly:

“That boy keeps calling me at night.”

I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

The mom laughed it off, said he “has nightmares sometimes” and pulled him away. But he kept looking over his shoulder as they left. His face was pale. Like he’d seen something standing behind me.

I don’t know what’s going on, but if an actual living kid is hearing the same voice?

I think whatever’s calling isn’t just stuck in the phone.

And after today… I’m starting to think someone — or something — doesn’t want us talking to him anymore.