The Third Name

I’m 22, and last Saturday night I found out that some stories don’t stay buried, no matter how many miles you put between them and yourself. I was at my friend Derek’s place in the old mill town of Ashwicke, a place that seemed to be built on wet rot and regret. He’d just bought a fixer-upper on Sycamore Lane, a Victorian with peeling wallpaper and a basement that smelled like cold pennies. We were setting up for our weekly retro gaming night, a Mario Kart tournament that had become a sacred ritual since we’d all scattered to different cities for work.

At 4:00 PM, the October dusk was already clotting the windows. Derek was fussing over the lag on his old CRT TV, and I was untangling a nest of controller cords. Our other buddy, Leo, was scrolling through his phone, half-listening to Derek’s rambling about some old lady who used to live here, a recluse named Mrs. Ostrowski who’d died in the ’90s and whose family had never cleared the place out. That’s why Derek got it cheap—he’d spent the last month hauling moldering furniture to the curb, but the deep, musty smell clung to the walls like tar.

Then Derek got quiet. He set down the screwdriver he was using to jimmy the TV’s input jack, and his face went pale under the grime of the flickering fluorescent light. ‘You think I’m crazy, right?’ he said. Leo and I exchanged glances. ‘Last week, around 2 in the morning, I was up here ripping out cabinet doors in the kitchen, trying to get rid of that smell. And I heard someone say my name. Not a shout, just… a low voice, right behind my ear. Said, ‘Derek.’ I spun around, but there was nothing. I figured I was just hearing things, you know? Tired, alone in this drafty old place.’

Leo laughed, but it was a tight sound. ‘Dude, you were probably hearing a floorboard settle. Or my stomach growling from that gas station burrito we had.’ I laughed too, but something cold snaked down my spine. I remembered my grandmother in Taipei warning me: at 2 AM, the veil is thin. If you hear your name called, it’s not a person. You never answer, and you never turn back, or the thing behind you will take more than just your name. I’d always thought it was a silly superstition, something to scare kids into staying quiet at night.

We tried to shake it off, but the air in that room felt heavier, like the house was holding its breath. The other two guys, Sam and Pete, finally showed up with a six-pack and a bag of chips, and for a while, the noise of Mario Kart drowned out the unease. We raced, we shouted, we spilled soda on the shag carpet. But as the night wore on, the mood shifted. The TV flickered—at first just a glitch, then longer, until the screen went black for a full two seconds. Derek cursed and slapped the side of the set. Then the sound cut out, and we were left in a sudden, ringing silence.

That’s when we heard it. Not from the TV, but from the dark hallway that led to the back of the house. A soft, almost feminine voice said, ‘Sam.’

We all froze. Sam was halfway to the bathroom, his hand on the doorframe. He turned toward the voice, a reflexive movement, his face puzzled. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Mom? You here?’

The lights flickered again. A draft, sharp and cold, blew through the room, carrying the smell of dust and something else—something like old compost. And then the voice came again, closer now, right from the doorway of the hallway. It said, ‘Sam, come here.’

I shouted, ‘Sam, don’t! Don’t answer! It’s a trick!’ But it was too late. Sam had already taken a step into the hallway, his eyes glazed as if he’d been drugged. The shadows in the hallway seemed to thicken, to twist into an almost human shape—tall and thin, with limbs that bent at angles that made my stomach turn. Pete screamed, a short, jagged sound, and I grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Derek was fumbling with his phone, trying to call 911, but his hands were shaking so hard he kept hitting the wrong buttons.

Sam disappeared into the blackness of the hallway. The door at the end—the one that led to the basement—slammed shut with a deafening crack. And then there was only the sound of Sam’s muffled, frantic footsteps descending the wooden stairs, and a voice from the basement—Sam’s own voice, but wrong, pitched too high—saying, ‘It’s okay, I’m down here. It’s safe.’

We didn’t go down. We’re not heroes. We ran out the front door, leaving my jacket and everyone’s keys, and we piled into Leo’s car in a blind panic. Derek was shaking, repeating over and over, ‘I told you, I told you someone called my name.’ Leo drove like a man possessed, his knuckles white on the wheel, and we ended up at a gas station three towns over. We called the police from there. They went back to the house, but they found nothing. No Sam. No sign of anything wrong. The house was empty, as if Sam had never been there. His phone was still on the coffee table, his wallet on the floor, but he was gone.

It’s been two days now. We’ve all been staying at my apartment, a cramped second-floor walk-up in a part of town that has its own share of bad history, but at least it’s not Sycamore Lane. The cops think Sam just took off, maybe had some kind of breakdown. But we know. We know that when you hear your name called in the dead of night, and you turn around, you don’t just lose your dignity. You lose your soul, and something else takes your place. Something that wears your face and speaks with your voice.

Last night, at 2 AM, my phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a message from Sam’s number. It was a voice memo. I haven’t listened to it yet. I’m afraid that if I do, it’ll be Sam’s voice—or what’s left of it—calling my name. And I know, with a certainty that chills my bones, that I won’t be able to stop myself from answering.