The Call from the Empty House

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I thought they were just stories to scare kids around campfires. But what happened with my friend Marta changed everything. It happened about two years ago, in the autumn of my senior year, when the leaves were turning and the air had that crisp bite that made you want to stay indoors. Marta was staying over at my place while her parents were at a late dinner across town. We lived in a quiet suburb, the kind where nothing ever happened, where the streets were empty by nine PM and the houses all looked the same.

Marta had been at my place for maybe two hours. We were in the living room, half-watching a movie and scrolling through our phones, when she decided to check if her parents were back. She dialed her home number, and we both listened to the ring. After the third ring, someone picked up. But there was no ‘hello’ or ‘Marta?’ – just the sound of breathing. Heavy, wet breaths, like someone was standing too close to the receiver, their mouth right on the mic. Then a click. The line went dead.

We stared at each other. I asked, ‘Maybe they just got home and the line cut off?’ But Marta shook her head. ‘They would have said something. And they’re not supposed to be back until midnight.’ We tried calling again, but this time no one answered. It just rang and rang until voicemail picked up. Marta left a message, her voice shaky, asking if they were home and to call back. We sat in silence, the TV forgotten.

An hour later, my phone buzzed. It was Marta’s mom. She said they were just leaving the restaurant and would be home soon. Marta asked, ‘Were you home about an hour ago? Did you pick up the phone?’ Her mom sounded confused. ‘No, we were still at dinner. We just left. Why?’ Marta told her about the breathing, and her mom laughed nervously, saying it was probably a prank call or a wrong number. But Marta wasn’t convinced. And neither was I.

When Marta’s parents finally came to pick her up, we decided to go over to her house to check things out. The house was dark, except for the porch light. Marta’s dad unlocked the front door, and we stepped inside. Everything was exactly as it should be: the keys on the hook, the mail on the table, the faint smell of their dog’s food. But then Marta froze. ‘The basement door is open,’ she whispered. Her parents always kept it closed, especially because of the kids. We all looked at the doorway at the end of the hall. It was slightly ajar, and a cold draft seeped out.

Her dad went to close it, but Marta stopped him. ‘Wait, I want to check something.’ She walked to the hallway phone, the one we had called, and pressed the redial button. The speaker crackled, and we heard a sound that made my blood run cold: the same heavy breathing, but this time it was coming from the basement. The phone line was somehow connected to a broken intercom system that had been in the basement for years, a relic from the previous owners. But the breathing… it was rhythmic, like a sleeping giant. Then it stopped.

We all stood there, not moving. Marta’s dad went down the basement stairs, a flashlight in his hand. He came back up a few minutes later, his face pale. He said there was nothing there, but he found the old intercom unit, the one that was supposed to be disconnected, lying on the floor with its cord torn out. The battery compartment was open, and the batteries were missing. But we all knew that even if someone had put batteries in, the unit couldn’t receive calls. It was only for outgoing.

We never found an explanation. Marta’s parents had the entire phone system checked, and the technicians said there was no way that call could have come through. But Marta and I both heard it. That breathing. I told my dad about it, and he said it was probably static or a wrong number, but I saw the way his hands trembled when he said it. Sometimes, when I’m alone and the house is quiet, I think about that call. And I wonder if the person on the other end was not in the basement, but somewhere between us and the world, waiting for us to pick up again.