Don’t Answer If It’s After Midnight

The first time it rang, Clara thought it was just a wrong number.

She didn’t even wake up fully—just stirred, groaned, and turned over. The phone stopped after three rings. 12:03 a.m. The soft blue light blinked in the dark, casting shadows across her bedroom.

She had work at seven. She’d deal with it in the morning.

But then it happened again. And again. Always just after midnight. Always just three rings. And always, the caller ID read: “Me.”

By the third night, curiosity outpaced caution. Clara sat up in bed, heart ticking a little faster than normal. She reached for the phone just as it lit up.

12:01 a.m.

Incoming Call — Me.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Some prank, she thought. Maybe a virus. That’s what logical Clara believed.

But the part of her that remembered childhood fears—the dark under the bed, whispers in the hallway, her mother telling her to never open the door after midnight—that part was wide awake.

Still, she answered.

“Hello?”

Static. A faint hum. Then: her own voice.

“Clara. Don’t answer. It’s not me. It’s never me.”

Click.

The call ended. She stared at the phone like it had just bitten her.

That morning, Clara called her mobile provider. No record of an incoming call at 12:01 a.m. They said it must’ve been spam or spoofing. Harmless, really.

But the voice was hers. Not like hers. Hers.

Clara did everything right after that. Changed her number. Got a new phone. Updated passwords. Slept with the phone in another room.

Night passed quietly for almost a week.

Then on the seventh night, at exactly 12:01 a.m., the house phone rang.

She didn’t even remember keeping a landline. Who had a landline anymore?

Her legs moved before her mind could decide. She padded barefoot down the hallway, the soft click of the clock matching the dread in her stomach. The phone was sitting on a dusty table in the corner of the kitchen, its ancient green screen glowing.

Incoming Call — Me.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

This time, the voice was hoarse, urgent. Still her own.

“Clara, it’s coming through the calls. Don’t pick up again. Please. You don’t know what you’re letting in.”

Click.

The silence was louder than the words.

She barely slept that night. She sat in the kitchen until sunrise, cradling a cup of cold tea and watching the phone like it might grow teeth.

At noon, she visited her old friend Jordan, a tech consultant and conspiracy hobbyist. He listened carefully, even took notes.

"You said the call was in your voice? Like a recording?" he asked.

"Not exactly. It... knew things. It sounded scared. Like me. But not now me. Like a me from somewhere else."

Jordan’s brow furrowed. “There’s this theory. Fringe, but interesting. Quantum bleed. Other timelines brushing against ours, like soap bubbles colliding. If a version of you found a way to reach across—”

“Why just after midnight?” she interrupted.

Jordan’s face turned serious. “Some believe midnight is a liminal space. A thin place. Doors open. Rules change.”

She didn’t want to believe him, but something in her gut whispered: he's right.

That night, she turned off everything. Phone unplugged. Router disconnected. No screens. No clocks.

She lay in the dark and counted her breaths.

Midnight passed. Relief washed over her.

Then the doorbell rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

She froze.

The house was old. The hallway long. The front door visible from her bedroom if she opened the door.

But she didn’t want to look. Every part of her screamed not to.

Ding-dong.

Four times.

She opened the door a crack, heart pounding.

The hallway was dark.

Then her phone rang.

She hadn’t brought it in here. It was supposed to be off. But there it was, on her nightstand, lit up with that same cold glow.

12:01 a.m.

Incoming Call — Me.

She picked it up, hands shaking, and answered.

A voice, not quite hers, spoke calmly:

“Thank you for letting me in.”

Clara never showed up to work again. Her apartment was found locked from the inside. No signs of struggle, but her bed was unmade, her tea still warm.

The phone sat on the nightstand, flashing a single notification:

Missed Call — Me.

The new tenant says the phone still rings at 12:01 a.m. every few nights.

They don’t answer.

At least, not yet.