The Last Call

The Last Call

It started as a normal Thursday night.

I was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through social media, when my phone buzzed with an incoming call. The screen flashed Unknown Number.

I almost ignored it—spam calls were nothing new. But something about the shrill, urgent vibration made me answer.

“Hello?”

For a moment, there was only static. Then, a distorted voice whispered, “You will die at 3:17 a.m.”

I froze.

“What sick joke is this?” I snapped.

But the call had already ended.

I stared at the screen, waiting for it to light up again. It didn’t. My chest tightened. I checked the time: 11:48 p.m. That gave me less than four hours.

It had to be a prank. Maybe one of my friends messing with me. I laughed nervously, forcing the unease down, and went back to scrolling. But every shadow in my apartment felt darker. Every creak in the building made me flinch.

At midnight, the call came again. Same number. Same dread in my gut.

I hesitated, then answered.

This time, the voice was clearer. Still broken, but chillingly calm.

“Three hours, seventeen minutes.”

The call cut.

I dropped the phone like it was on fire. My heart pounded against my ribs.

I tried calling my best friend, David, to tell him about it. Straight to voicemail. I called again and again, but no answer.

By 1:00 a.m., I was pacing my apartment. Logic fought fear inside me. It’s just a prank. Nothing is going to happen.

Then, at 1:30, the power went out.

The sudden darkness swallowed me whole. My phone was the only light, its screen glowing faintly in my trembling hand.

At 2:00 a.m., I dialed 911. My voice cracked as I told the operator about the calls.

“Sir, are you in immediate danger?” the woman asked, calm but dismissive.

“I don’t know! Someone’s threatening me, they keep calling—”

The line went dead. My phone screen turned black.

No service. No signal.

And in the silence of my apartment, I heard it—my ringtone. From the kitchen.

But my phone was in my hand.

Cold terror wrapped around me. Slowly, I followed the sound. The ringing grew louder as I approached the dark kitchen.

On the counter sat my old landline phone. Dusty. Unplugged for years. Yet it was ringing, shrill and steady.

My knees nearly gave out, but I picked up the receiver with a shaking hand.

The voice spoke again. “Seventeen minutes left.”

The line clicked. Silence.

At 3:00 a.m., I sat in the corner of my living room, clutching a kitchen knife like it could save me. Sweat poured down my face. Every tick of the clock echoed in my skull.

3:10.

I was gasping, begging myself to believe it wasn’t real. That it was just some twisted prank.

3:15.

The shadows in the room seemed to crawl closer. My phone buzzed one final time.

Unknown Number.

With trembling hands, I answered.

“Your time is up,” the voice whispered.

I barely had time to scream before the lights flickered on.

Neighbors would later say they heard a crash, like furniture overturning, followed by silence. When they found me the next morning, I was sprawled on the floor, phone still clutched in my cold hand.

The cause of death? Undetermined. Heart attack, they said. Panic, maybe. But no one could explain the deep handprint-shaped bruises around my throat—like someone had been holding me down.

And on my phone?

The call log showed a final outgoing call. To my own number. At 3:17 a.m.

© 2025 by [Talha Maroof]