The Apartment That Called Back

No one knew why Flat 27 had been empty for so long.

The landlord told Nathan it had simply been “difficult to rent.” The previous tenant had left suddenly, leaving behind furniture, clothes, and an old landline telephone mounted on the wall.

Nathan didn't care. The rent was cheap, the location was perfect, and he didn't believe in ghost stories.

On his first night, the landline rang at 2:46 a.m.

Nathan stared at it for nearly a minute before answering.

“Hello?”

There was silence.

Then he heard breathing.

Slow. Weak. Frightened.

“Who is this?”

A woman's voice finally whispered:

“Don't let him hear you.”

The call ended.

The Voicemail From Tomorrow

Nathan checked the number.

It was coming from his own landline.

The next morning, he asked the landlord about the phone.

The landlord became uncomfortable.

“Don't answer it after midnight,” he said.

Nathan laughed.

The landlord didn't.

That night, Nathan unplugged the phone.

At exactly 2:46 a.m., it rang anyway.

He stood frozen in bed.

The disconnected telephone continued ringing.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Finally, Nathan answered.

This time, the woman was crying.

“You answered last night too.”

Nathan's blood went cold.

“What?”

“I told you not to let him hear you. But you spoke.”

“Who are you?”

The woman stopped crying.

Then she whispered:

“I'm in your flat.”

Nathan turned on every light.

He searched the kitchen.

The bathroom.

The wardrobe.

Under the bed.

Nobody.

Then the woman spoke again through the telephone.

“No... not there.”

Nathan slowly looked toward the hallway.

At the end of it was a closed door.

He had assumed it was a storage cupboard.

The landlord had told him it was locked.

Nathan had never checked.

The phone began crackling.

Then the woman screamed.

A man's voice suddenly appeared.

Very close to the receiver.

“Nathan?”

He dropped the phone.

The voice continued.

“You weren't supposed to move in until next week.”

Nathan ran from the apartment and called the police.

When they arrived, they forced open the locked door.

Behind it was a narrow room with no windows.

Nothing inside except an old chair.

And another landline telephone.

The police officer lifted the receiver.

There was no dial tone.

Then Nathan's mobile rang.

He answered.

It was the woman.

For the first time, she sounded calm.

“Thank you for opening the door.”

Nathan whispered, “Who are you?”

There was a long silence.

Then she said:

“I'm the one who called you from Flat 27.”

Nathan looked at the officer.

The officer was staring into the empty room.

His face had gone pale.

Nathan asked what was wrong.

The officer slowly pointed toward the chair.

Scratched into the wooden armrest were dozens of names.

Every person who had ever lived in Flat 27.

Nathan's name was already there.

But beneath it was another name.

The woman who had called him.

And beside her name were three words:

STILL IN THE WALLS.