The Last Call at 9:15

I was folding my laundry, the familiar hum of the dorm’s ancient radiator a constant companion, when my roommate, Lena, slipped in. We’d shared this cramped room for three years, our lives interwoven in the threads of textbooks and takeout containers. She was always the burst of energy, the one who’d drag me to campus events and laugh at my terrible puns. But today, she was different. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes, usually bright, were dull and distant. I asked, ‘Hey, you okay? You look wiped.’ She mustered a weak smile and said, ‘Yeah, just tired. Long day.’ I didn’t press. I knew that look—the one that said ‘don’t pry.’ I finished my packing, the silence between us heavy. As I grabbed my bag, she rose from the bed, came over, and wrapped her arms around me. Her hug felt tighter than usual, like she was trying to hold me in place. ‘Take care of yourself,’ she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. I laughed it off, saying, ‘You too. Call me if you need anything.’ I left, the door clicking shut behind me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Driving home, the familiar highway stretched before me, and I tried to push the unease away. Every weekend for three years, I made this drive, and every time, I’d call Lena to check in. But today, my calls went straight to voicemail. I left a message, then another, my worry growing with each mile. At home, my mom noticed my distraction. ‘Honey, she’s probably just napping. Phones die, you know.’ I nodded, but a cold knot tightened in my stomach. I couldn’t explain it—the feeling that something was fundamentally wrong.

After dinner, at exactly 9:15 PM, my phone rang. The screen lit up with Lena’s name. I grabbed it, relief flooding through me. ‘Lena! I was so worried!’ But the voice on the other end wasn’t her cheerful tone. It was low, almost slurred, and the words were disjointed. ‘Hey… I’m fine. Just… needed to sleep. Don’t worry about me.’ The line crackled, and I heard a sound that made my blood run cold—a faint, wet breathing, like someone was struggling to breathe through water. ‘Lena, are you sure you’re okay? You sound… strange.’ There was a long pause. ‘I’m okay. Just tired. Goodbye.’ The call ended abruptly. I stared at the phone, my heart pounding. Something was profoundly wrong, but I couldn’t place it. I tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail again. I spent the night tossing and turning, the memory of that call gnawing at me.

The next morning, I decided to drive back to the dorm, my anxiety overpowering any plan. I told my mom I forgot something important. When I arrived, the door to our room was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and the scene that greeted me made my blood freeze. The room was pristine, everything in its place, except for one detail: Lena’s bed was perfectly made, as if she’d never slept there. And on her pillow lay her phone, its screen shattered, the last call timestamp showing 9:15 PM—my call. But I never spoke to that voice on the other end. I ran to the RA’s office, and they called the police. They found no signs of struggle, no note, nothing. Lena had vanished without a trace. The only clue was the strange, wet breathing I heard on that call. Weeks passed, and the police had no leads. I couldn’t sleep, haunted by the memory of her hug, her whispered ‘take care,’ and the voice that was hers but not hers. I started to see her in my dreams, always trying to tell me something, but her mouth would fill with water, and she’d sink away. The last thing she ever said to me was ‘goodbye’ at 9:15 PM, but I know deep down, that wasn’t Lena. Something else answered that call, wearing her voice, and it’s still out there, waiting to be called again.