The Call from the Unlocked Room

I turned sixteen on the twenty-sixth of October, and my parents had promised to take me to the city for dinner. But an unexpected storm had knocked out the power in our neighborhood, and the restaurant we’d booked was closed. So we decided to celebrate at home. My father said he’d go out to buy a new stove burner since the old one had given up, and my mother went with him to pick up a birthday cake from the bakery that stayed open late. I was left alone in our new apartment, which was strange to me because we’d just moved in a week ago.

The apartment was on the fifth floor of an old building, and its layout was an L-shape. The living room was at the elbow, with a long hallway stretching to the left leading to the master bedroom and a smaller hallway to the right leading to the guest room and bathroom. My room was in the middle of the L, facing the living room. The whole place still smelled of fresh paint and new furniture, and the rain lashed against the windows, making the lights flicker.

I had dressed in a new shirt and was sitting on the couch, waiting for my parents, when the phone rang. It was an old landline in the master bedroom, the only phone in the apartment, and we’d kept it because the mobile signal was unreliable in the building. I ran down the hall, my bare feet slapping on the cold wooden floor, and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’ I said, expecting a birthday wish from a friend. But the line crackled with static, and then a low voice—hoarse and strange—spoke. ‘You shouldn’t have opened the door.’ I frowned. ‘What? Who is this?’ But the line went dead.

I stood there, puzzled, and then I noticed something odd. The door to the master bedroom’s en-suite bathroom was slightly ajar, and I distinctly remembered closing it earlier because the window in there was open and rain was blowing in. I walked over and pushed it open. The bathroom was empty, but the mirror above the sink was fogged up, as if someone had just taken a hot shower. The air was humid and smelled of damp earth. I felt a chill run down my spine. I backed out and closed the door firmly.

I went back to the living room, trying to laugh it off. It must be my friends playing a prank, I thought. But the phone rang again. This time, I was closer, so I answered in the kitchen extension—no, we didn’t have a kitchen extension, it was only in the master bedroom. So I ran again, my heart pounding. Same static, same voice, but now it said, ‘I’m in the guest room.’

I slammed the phone down. The guest room was at the end of the right hallway. I tiptoed there, my mouth dry. The door was shut. I turned the knob slowly and pushed it open, the light from the hallway spilling into the dark room. The window was open, and the curtain billowed like a ghost. The bed was neatly made, but on the pillow lay a single red rose—I hadn’t put that there. I felt a wave of nausea. I closed the window, grabbed the rose, and threw it into the trash bin in the kitchen.

The phone rang a third time. I didn’t want to answer, but it kept ringing, insistent. I picked it up and screamed, ‘Stop it!’ The voice chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. ‘You’re in my house now,’ it said. ‘And I’m in the master bedroom.’

I turned around, and the master bedroom door was wide open, a dark void at the end of the hall. I had left it closed. My breath caught in my throat. I dropped the phone and ran to the front door, yanking at the handle. It was locked. I fumbled with the deadbolt, but my fingers were shaking. I heard footsteps behind me, slow and deliberate, coming down the hall.

I finally got the door open and burst into the corridor, slamming the door behind me. I ran down the stairs, not stopping until I reached the ground floor, where I collapsed on the steps, gasping. The rain had stopped, and the streetlights flickered on. I looked up at our fifth-floor window. The light was on, and I saw the silhouette of a figure standing at the glass, watching me.

When my parents returned, they found me huddled in the lobby. They laughed at my story, saying it was just my imagination and the stress of the move. But that night, as I lay in my bed, I heard the phone ring again. I didn’t answer. It rang for a long time, and then it stopped. The next morning, when I finally dared to go into the master bedroom, the phone was unplugged, but on the floor lay a red rose—the same one I’d thrown away.

I never found out who called. But sometimes, when I’m alone in the apartment, I hear faint footsteps in the hallway, and I know that the guest room door is not quite closed. I always keep it locked now, but the voice still whispers to me in my dreams: ‘You shouldn’t have opened the door.’ And I don’t know what door it means anymore—the apartment door, the bathroom door, or something else entirely. All I know is that the building is old, and the walls have secrets, and that rose was not from anyone I knew.