Just A Call Centre Horror Story

Just A Call Centre Horror Story

Carl had been working at the Arthritis Relief Helpline for nearly a decade. The job was simple—answer calls, provide support, and guide sufferers through their pain. It wasn’t exactly fulfilling, but it paid the bills, and Carl had long since accepted that was enough.

His shift was the graveyard one—8 PM to 4 AM. The calls were sporadic at night, mostly lonely elderly people seeking advice or just someone to talk to. Carl had gotten used to the routine: a warm cup of coffee, the glow of his computer screen, and the slow, monotonous cadence of tired voices on the other end.

But then, the other calls started.

It was a few weeks ago when he first noticed something strange. A caller with a deep, rasping voice had asked him a question no one had before.

“What do you tell them when it’s too late?”Carl had frowned. “I’m sorry, sir. Too late for what?”“When they know they’re not getting better. When they know they’re about to leave.”

Carl assumed the man meant death. It wasn’t uncommon for the elderly to talk about it—fearing it, accepting it, sometimes even welcoming it.“I tell them that pain is temporary,” Carl had replied. “That there’s peace after the suffering.”

The man on the line had chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “Yes. Yes, there is.”Then he hung up.Carl tried to shake it off. Just another strange caller, nothing more. But then, the man called again the next night. And the night after that.

Every time, it was the same deep, labored breathing. The same question “What do you tell them when it’s too late?” Carl’s responses varied—sometimes soothing, sometimes practical. He suggested therapy, spoke about coping mechanisms, even offered to call for emergency help. But nothing ever seemed to satisfy the caller.

Then, one night, the man asked something ne“What do you tell yourself, Carl?”Carl’s fingers froze over the keyboard. He never introduced himself during these calls. How did the man know his nam“Sir, have we spoken before?” he asked, trying to keep his voice stead, The caller chuckled again. “Oh, Carl. I know all my visitors before I arrive.”A cold weight settled in Carl’s stomach. “Arrive where?” “There.”Static crackled over the line.“With you.”The call cut off. Carl sat in his chair, his body rigid with unease. It had to be a prank. A disturbed person playing mind games. But the cold sweat on his back wouldn’t let him believe that.

The next few nights were quiet. No strange calls. No rasping voice. Carl began to relax, convincing himself that it had been nothing more than a bad joke.Then, on a quiet Tuesday night,

his phone rang at 3:30 No caller ID He hesitated before answering. “Arthritis Relief HelplindxfxSilence.Then, breathing. Deep, slow, deliberate. Carl’s pulse thundered.“Who is this?”s

“It’s too late, Carl.”A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. A figure standing just beyond the glow of his monitor. His breath caught in his throat as the room seemed to darken, the air turning thick, heavy. “I’m here.” Carl turned his head, trembling. Something stood in the doorway of the call centre. A shape, too tall, too thin. Its fingers curled long and gnarled, like brittle bones beneath paper-thin skin. Its face… no, there was no face. Just a gaping blackness where eyes and a mouth should have been.

The figure took a slow, shuddering step forward. Carl tried to move, to scream, but his body wouldn’t obey.“I visit everyone before the end,” the voice rasped. “And you… you’ve been so kind. You’ve prepared so many for me. But no one prepares for themselves, do they?”

Carl gasped as pain shot through his joints, sudden and unbearable. His fingers curled involuntarily, his back arched, his knees locked. It felt like his body was crumbling, folding inward. He understood now. He had spent years comforting the suffering, easing them into the inevitable. But the inevitable had come for him. The last thing he saw was the figure reaching for him.

The last thing he heard was his own voice, crackling over the phone line.“It’s too late, Carl.”Carl’s breath hitched as the pain intensified. It wasn’t just in his joints—it was everywhere. A deep, searing ache, as if his bones were turning to dust inside him. His fingers curled against the desk, rigid and frozen, his body no longer his own.

The figure in the doorway took another step forward. Its movements were unnatural—too smooth, too deliberate, as if it was gliding rather than walking. The shadows clung to its form, wrapping around it like living things, shifting and writhing. Carl tried to scream, but his throat locked. He could only stare as the thing reached out a skeletal hand, its fingers impossibly long, tipped with cracked, yellowing nails.

“You’ve spoken to so many before me,” it rasped. “Told them how to prepare. But did you ever listen, Carl? Did you ever believe?”Carl’s heartbeat was a frantic drum against his ribs. His mind scrambled for logic, for reason—this had to be a dream, a stress-induced hallucination, something, anything but real. But the pain was real. The cold creeping over his skin was real.

The phone on his desk rang. The same unlisted number.The figure did not turn, but somehow, Carl knew—it was the one calling. His trembling hand, stiff with agony, reached for the receiver. He didn’t want to answer. But he knew he had no choice. With a shaky breath, he pressed the phone to his ear. “Hello, Carl,” his own voice whispered back at him.He jolted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Who—who are you?” The voice on the other end chuckled. “The last call you’ll ever take.” The line went dead.

The next morning, when the day shift arrived, they found Carl sitting at his desk, still as stone. His body was stiff, frozen in a posture of agony. His phone lay off the hook, the dial tone humming softly into the silence.

There were no signs of struggle. No forced entry. Just a man at his desk, locked in his final moment. His computer screen was still on, his last note unfinished: “What do you tell them when it’s too late?”

Carl’s death went down as an unexplained cause of death. The call centre closed its doors a month later—without Carl, it couldn’t function. Eventually, the building was torn down. That was when the truth surfaced.

Old newspaper clippings revealed a grim history. The land had been cursed for centuries, built over an ancient burial ground where many terrible deaths had been recorded. And in those stories, a name appeared again and again.They called it the Grim Reaper. If only Carl had known. Maybe he’d still be here today.

It was later found out that over the years, more than 70 people had been found dead in that building. Each one alone. Each one frozen in fear. Each one taking their last call.

The End