The Second Call

I was sixteen, living in a small apartment in the bustling city of Karachi, when the incident occurred. My name is Ayesha, and I was a typical teenage girl, balancing school, family, and the usual anxieties of growing up. That particular night, I had gone to bed early, exhausted from a long day of exams.

My room faced the courtyard, and the faint glow of the city lights filtered through the thin curtains. I had just drifted into a deep sleep when I was jolted awake by an unnatural silence. The usual hum of the ceiling fan, the distant car horns, and even the barking of stray dogs had vanished. It was as if the world had been muffled.

I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. The clock on my nightstand read 3:33 AM. The air was thick and heavy, pressing against my ears. I scanned the room, but everything was in its place – my school bag, my hijab hanging on the chair, my books stacked neatly. Yet, something felt profoundly wrong.

Just as I was about to lie back down, I heard it – my mother’s voice, soft and loving, calling my name twice: ‘Ayesha, Ayesha.’ For a moment, relief washed over me. She always called me like that in the mornings, her voice carrying a gentle urgency. But then I remembered: it was the middle of the night, and my mother was asleep in the other room.

I called out, ‘Amma?’ But no response. The silence that followed was deafening. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and padded to the door, my bare feet cold against the tiles. I pushed the door open and peered into the hallway. The corridor stretched into darkness, the only light coming from the faint glow under my parents’ bedroom door.

I walked to their room and softly knocked. ‘Amma? Abbu?’ I whispered. No answer. I turned the knob slowly and pushed the door open. The room was empty. The beds were made, untouched. Cold dread seeped into my bones. It was then that I heard the voice again, but this time it was not coming from my mother’s room. It seemed to emanate from the living room, at the end of the hall.

My legs moved on their own, drawn by a force I couldn’t resist. As I entered the living room, I saw a shadowy figure seated on the sofa, its face obscured. The shape was unmistakably my mother – the way she sat, her posture, the familiar curve of her shoulders.

‘Amma?’ I whispered, my voice trembling.

The figure slowly turned its head. In the dim light, I saw her face, but it was wrong – the eyes were too dark, the smile too wide. She opened her mouth and spoke in a voice that was almost my mother’s, but layered with something else, like a thousand whispers underneath.

‘Ayesha, come closer. I have something to tell you.’

I took a step back, every instinct screaming at me to run. But my feet were rooted to the floor. The thing that wore my mother’s face rose and began to walk toward me, its movements jerky and unnatural.

‘Silly girl,’ it said, its voice shifting, becoming deeper, more malevolent. ‘Did you think a simple call would be enough to wake you?’

I finally found the strength to turn and run. I dashed back to my room, slammed the door, and locked it. I pressed my back against the door, panting, tears streaming down my face. The voice continued to call from the other side, but now it was not just my mother’s voice. It was my father’s, my brother’s, and then – worst of all – my own.

I clamped my hands over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut. I chanted prayers, repeating verses from the Quran, desperately seeking protection. The voice grew louder, distorted, but then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

I stayed there all night, not daring to move. When the first rays of dawn crept through my window, I finally mustered the courage to open the door. The apartment was normal. My mother was in the kitchen, making breakfast, humming a familiar tune.

‘You’re up early, beta,’ she said, smiling. ‘Did you sleep well?’

I couldn’t answer. I just nodded, my throat tight. When I looked at her, I saw a flicker of something in her eyes – a dark glint that disappeared in an instant. It was then that I knew: the thing in the living room wasn’t just a nightmare. And it was still here, waiting for me to let my guard down.

From that night on, I never slept without my lights on. And whenever I hear a familiar voice calling my name, I count twice before answering. Because sometimes, the second call is the one that comes from somewhere else.