“Don’t Answer

“Don’t Answer”

It began with a phone call.

At 2:17 a.m., Kayla’s phone rang. The screen was black, no name, no number. Just UNKNOWN CALLER.

She let it ring.

The next night, same time. Ring. UNKNOWN CALLER.

She answered, heart pounding.

“…Hello?”

Silence.

Then a whisper:

“Don’t answer the door.”

Click.

She stared at her phone, the call log showing nothing. Like it hadn’t happened.

The following night, she sat up in bed, staring at the time. 2:17 a.m. came—and the phone rang again.

“Who is this?” she snapped.

“Don’t answer the door.”

Click.

No one knocked. No one came.

On the third night, it was raining hard. Thunder shook the walls. At 2:17 a.m., the phone rang.

She let it ring.

Then—three loud knocks at the door.

Kayla froze.

She tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole.

A man stood there, motionless. No umbrella. No jacket. Just standing in the rain, soaked to the bone, head down.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then—her phone buzzed.

Text message:

“Don’t answer the door.”

She stepped back.

The man knocked again. Louder.

“Kayla,” he said softly, somehow through the door. “I need help.”

She couldn’t look away. Her heart raced, thudding so loud it drowned the storm.

Then he lifted his head.

His face wasn’t… right.

It was blurry, like a smudged photograph. His eyes were too wide, mouth too long. Lips parted in a grotesque smile.

“Please,” he whispered, stretching the word.

Kayla stumbled back, grabbed her phone, and dialed 911.

No signal.

She looked back.

The man was gone.

No footsteps, no trail in the rain. Just an empty porch.

She didn’t sleep that night.

The next day, she asked her neighbor if they’d seen anyone.

“No,” Mrs. Lane said. “But I heard knocking. Thought maybe your boyfriend was locked out.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Mrs. Lane frowned. “Then who was standing on your porch for twenty minutes last night?”

That night, she turned off all the lights. Sat in the corner of her room with a knife and her phone.

2:17 a.m.

The phone rang.

She answered instantly.

“Who are you? Why are you calling me?”

Silence.

Then:

“You listened. That’s good. Don’t answer the door.”

Click.

And then came the knock.

Not at her front door.

At her bedroom window.

Kayla whimpered and looked toward the window. The curtains were thin. A shadow loomed behind them.

Knock. Knock.

She crawled slowly across the floor, heart thudding. She grabbed a flashlight and shone it toward the window.

Nothing.

Then her phone buzzed.

A new message:

“He’s inside.”

She dropped the phone.

The closet door creaked behind her.

She turned slowly, knife raised.

Nothing there.

But the door was open.

She closed it, hands shaking, and backed away—then stopped.

A wet footprint.

On her bedroom carpet.

Not hers.

Then another.

And another.

Leading toward her bed.

She dropped to her knees and lifted the bed skirt.

Empty.

A knock at the window again.

But this time—it wasn’t just one knock. It was three sets.

Left window.

Right window.

Back wall.

She backed into the hallway and slammed her bedroom door shut, barricading it with a chair.

The phone rang again.

UNKNOWN CALLER.

She answered without a word.

“He’s not alone anymore.”

Click.

Kayla ran.

Out the door, into the street, barefoot in the rain. She didn’t care. She drove straight to her sister’s place across town.

She didn’t tell her everything—just enough. Her sister didn’t ask many questions, just let her stay.

For the first time in days, Kayla slept.

But at 2:17 a.m., her sister’s phone rang.

UNKNOWN CALLER.

Kayla jolted awake, grabbed the phone.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“You brought them with you.”

Click.

Then came the knock.

At the bedroom door.

The next morning, the apartment was silent.

No sign of Kayla.

No sign of her sister.

Just two wet sets of footprints across the floor.

And a phone buzzing on the nightstand.

Ringing.

2:17 a.m.