The Call at 7:40

My Aunt Rosa had been the one to call me with the news. It was a Tuesday, late August, the air thick with the smell of dry grass and the drone of cicadas. I was house-sitting for the Hartley family, a sprawling old farmhouse on the edge of a town called Morrow Creek. I had been close to my aunt, even closer to her husband, my Uncle Mateo. He had been in the hospital for a month, fighting a losing battle against the cancer that had eaten his lungs. When the call came, I was in the middle of reheating a frozen dinner, the microwave humming its lonely song. The words themselves were simple, but they shattered the quiet of the kitchen: ‘He’s gone, Effie. He passed away this afternoon.’ I dropped the phone. It clattered on the tile floor, and for a long moment, I just stared at the crack spreading across the screen. I didn’t cry. Not then. I was numb, my mind refusing to accept it.

I had to stay at the farmhouse until the weekend, when the Hartleys would return from their trip. The house was a maze of rooms, filled with old furniture and the smell of dust and lavender. That night, I curled up on the couch in the den, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten on the coffee table. The TV was on, a sitcom rerun, but I wasn’t watching. I was thinking about Mateo, about the last time I saw him in the hospital, his hand so thin and fragile in mine. I must have drifted off, because when I opened my eyes, the screen was static, the hiss filling the room. My phone buzzed beside me, vibrating against the wooden armrest. I picked it up, groggy. It was 7:40. The caller ID read ‘Mateo.’

My blood ran cold. It couldn’t be him. He was dead. I had attended the funeral that very morning, seen his body in the casket, still and cold. But the name was there, bright and clear. With trembling fingers, I answered. ‘Hello?’ I said, my voice a whisper. There was silence, a deep, loaded silence that seemed to stretch for miles. ‘Mateo?’ I tried again. ‘Uncle Mateo? Are you there?’ The silence deepened, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with something, a presence, a weight pressing against my ear. I could hear, very faintly, the sound of breathing, slow and labored, as if someone were gasping for air. My throat tightened. ‘I know you’re there,’ I said, my voice cracking. ‘Please, say something.’

Nothing. Just that breathless rattle. I felt a chill crawl up my spine, and I slammed the phone down. My hands were shaking. The static on the TV flickered, and for a moment, I thought I saw a shape in the snow, a tall, thin figure standing at the edge of the room. I blinked, and it was gone. My heart was pounding. I told myself it was a prank, a cruel joke, or a wrong number, but the name on the screen was unmistakable.

I tried to clean up the mess from my dinner, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. The popcorn I had been eating before the call was scattered across the floor, and I knelt to pick it up, my mind racing. The silence from the phone kept echoing in my head. I told myself it was nothing, just a malfunction, a glitch from the network, but a part of me knew better.

Later that night, I went to the bathroom to splash water on my face. The mirror was fogged, and I wiped it with the sleeve of my shirt. My reflection stared back at me, pale and haunted. But behind my shoulder, in the faint reflection of the hallway, I saw a figure standing in the doorway. It was tall, gaunt, with sunken cheeks and a hospital gown. It was Mateo, his eyes hollow, his mouth open in a silent scream. I spun around, but the hallway was empty. My breath caught in my throat. I ran back to the den, grabbing my phone, but the call history showed no missed calls from Mateo. The call was gone, as if it had never happened.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the armchair, my knees hugged to my chest, watching the door. The TV remained on static, but I didn’t dare turn it off. At some point, the static resolved into a faint hum, and I could swear I heard my name, spoken in a broken, raspy whisper. ‘Effie…’ It was his voice, but not his voice. It was the sound of a dying man, the air leaving his lungs for the last time. I covered my ears, but I could still feel it in my bones.

As dawn broke, I called my cousin, Lucia, to ask if anyone else had received any calls from Mateo. She laughed nervously, thinking I was joking. ‘He’s dead, Effie. You know that.’ I didn’t tell her about the call. I didn’t tell anyone. But that night, at exactly 7:40, my phone rang again. The same name, the same silence, the same labored breathing. This continued for seven nights, each time with a growing sense of malevolence. On the seventh night, the breathing was accompanied by a word, barely audible, but unmistakable: ‘Help.’

I broke down. I couldn’t stay in the farmhouse any longer. I packed my bags and left, driving through the dark, praying that the calls would stop. But they didn’t. They followed me. Every night, at 7:40, my phone would ring, and I would see his name. I would answer, and I would hear that gasping, and I would feel his presence closing in around me.

Months passed. I changed my number, moved to a different town, but the calls persisted. One night, in a desperate attempt to find peace, I drove to the cemetery where he was buried. It was late, the moon high and full. I stood before his grave, the grass still fresh, and I whispered, ‘Please, let me go.’ The wind picked up, rustling the leaves, and for a moment, I thought I saw a figure standing at the edge of the graves, watching me. It was him. He was wearing the same hospital gown, his face ashen, his eyes filled with a desperate, pleading look. He raised a hand, as if reaching for me, and I heard his voice in my mind, not through the phone, but directly in my head. ‘I’m not ready to go. You have to help me.’

I ran. I ran until my legs burned, until I reached my car, and I drove away, never looking back. To this day, I still get the calls. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, at 7:40 in the evening, my phone rings, and I see his name. I never answer anymore. But I hear it, the ringtone that he had set, the old Nokia tune he and I had laughed about. It echoes through my house, and I know that somewhere, somehow, he is still calling, still waiting for me to answer. And I fear that one day, I will pick up the phone, and the silence will be replaced by a voice, and I will have to face what I have been running from all these years.