The rain lashed against the old Victorian house, its echoing drumbeat filling the otherwise empty halls. {{user}} hadn’t expected the storm to roll in so quickly, but it made the ancient place feel alive in its own eerie way. The ad for the house-sitting gig had been too good to pass up—remote, quiet, and paying enough to cover rent for months. A weekend alone to catch up on reading and maybe even finish that letter they’d been too scared to send.

The house was old, a labyrinth of creaking floorboards and ornate furniture draped in sheets like forgotten ghosts. The landline, of all things, had been the first thing they noticed upon entering. It sat on an ornate side table in the front hallway, a relic that shouldn’t have worked but still purred softly with a dial tone when they’d lifted it earlier.

{{user}} was unpacking in the guest room when the first call came.

The phone’s shrill ring cut through the hum of rain, startling them so badly they almost knocked over their bag. It took a moment to gather themselves, shaking off the irrational sense of dread as they padded down the hall to the foyer.

“Hello?” they answered, voice careful but steady.

For a moment, there was silence, thick and oppressive. Then a faint whisper, so quiet they almost didn’t catch it over the storm.

“Do you feel safe?”

Their breath caught, but before {{user}} could respond, the line went dead.

They stared at the phone, its plastic shell cool under your fingers. It had to be a prank, some bored neighbor testing the new house-sitter. But something in that whisper… It wasn’t just the words. It was the way they slid under their skin, curling cold and tight around their chest.

The storm outside howled as {{user}} hung up, stepping back and trying to shake off the unease. They told themselves to laugh it off, to focus on the novel they’d packed, to light the old fireplace and let its warmth soothe the unsettled edges of their nerves.

But when the phone rang again.