The bell above the door jangled as Lisa stepped into the dimly lit cake shop, the scent of cocoa and vanilla wrapping around her like a warm embrace. The place was old-fashioned—dark wooden counters, glass displays fogged with age, and the flickering glow of a single overhead bulb casting shadows too long for the room. A faded sign behind the counter read: "Simon's Bakery—Serving Sweetness Since 1952."
Lisa shivered. Something about this place felt... off. Maybe it was the stillness, the way time stretched thin. But she was here for one thing only—a chocolate cake, the same one she ordered every year on this day.
A hunched old man emerged from the back, his apron stained with dark smudges. His face was all deep wrinkles and small, sunken eyes, like someone who had spent too many years staring into an oven.
"You're early," he rasped.
Lisa hesitated. "I placed an order. Yesterday. A chocolate cake."
The old man nodded slowly, turning his back to her, moving sluggishly behind the counter. She tapped her fingers on the glass display, her nails clicking against the surface. The silence of the place gnawed at her, thick and unnatural.
Minutes passed. She glanced at her phone. No signal.
Finally, he returned, placing a small, square box on the counter. Lisa frowned—it was too light, too small.
"That's it?" she asked.
He wiped his hands on his apron. "That's what you ordered."
A cold knot formed in her stomach, but she forced a smile. "Right. Thanks."
She slid the box into her tote bag, dropped some cash on the counter, and left without another word.
The street outside was empty. The town had always been quiet, but tonight, it felt abandoned. The streetlights buzzed faintly, their glow flickering like dying fireflies.
Lisa walked quickly, clutching the box. Something about it unsettled her. It felt like it wasn't meant to be carried—like it was something that should've been left behind.
At home, she set the box on the kitchen table, exhaled, and flipped open the lid.
No cake.
Just a small, crumpled piece of paper.
She smoothed it out with trembling fingers.
Are you confused? Call me.
0178… The rest of the number was smudged, and illegible.
Lisa's heartbeat thumped against her ribs. A joke, maybe? Some kind of weird promotional thing? But no, there was no business card, no explanation.
Her hands moved before her brain could stop them. She grabbed her phone, and punched in the digits she could read.
The line connected instantly. No dial tone.
And then—
A sound.
Soft, distant. A child? No, not quite. Something younger, something… wrong. It was crying, but not with sadness. The sound was wet, strained like someone forcing it out.
Lisa's throat went dry. "Hello?"
The crying stopped.
Then—
A whisper. Low, deliberate. Close, too close.
"Are you confused?"
Lisa gasped, dropping the phone. It clattered onto the table, the call still running. But she could still hear it. Still hear the crying.
Her breath hitched. The phone lay face-up, untouched. The call had ended.
But the sound continued.
Somewhere in her apartment.
A slow, dragging sound crept through the air, as if something was shifting. A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
A knock at the door.
Lisa's body went rigid.
Another knock. Louder.
She turned toward the door, hands shaking. The air in the apartment had turned frigid.
The final knock sent a chill down her spine.
Somewhere behind her, the whisper came again.
"Are you confused?"
Lisa screamed.
The door creaked open on its own.
And then—nothing.
She was gone.
But the apartment?
The apartment was never quiet again.
The apartment sat still. Silent.
Lisa was gone.
Her phone lay abandoned on the table, the screen cracked from the fall. The call log still displayed the last number dialed—0178… But no one picked it up again. Because there was no one left to call.
Neighbors claimed they heard nothing. No scream. No struggle. Just… a door opening, then closing. That was all.
The landlord, Mr. Grayson, came the next morning after Lisa failed to pay her rent. He knocked twice, waiting. Then knocked again, harder.
No answer.
The door was unlocked.
He stepped inside, frowning at the untouched breakfast cereal box on the counter, the single coffee mug still warm to the touch. A faint ringing sound came from the floor—the phone, vibrating silently in place.
"Lisa?"
The air felt wrong. Heavy. The silence wasn't normal. It was hollow as if the apartment itself was holding its breath.
Then, the whisper.
"Are you confused?"
Grayson spun around, heart hammering. The room was empty.
Something shifted behind him. A breeze? No. There were no windows open.
A dull scratching sound came from inside the walls. Faint. Scraping. Slow.
He backed toward the door.
And then—the crying.
A soft, strained wail, came from the bedroom.
Grayson swallowed hard, stepping forward despite the warning bells blaring in his brain. The bedroom door was ajar, a sliver of darkness waiting beyond.
He reached out and pushed it open.
Nothing.
The bed was untouched. The closet door was slightly open.
And on the floor—a single, folded note.
He bent down, hesitated, then picked it up.
The paper smelled faintly of chocolate.
Three words were written inside.
"Are you confused?"
A knock.
Right behind him.
Grayson turned, expecting—what? A prank? Lisa standing there, laughing?
But the door was closed.
And the knock had come from inside the room.
A shadow moved in the mirror.
Grayson bolted.
Lisa was officially missing.
The police found no signs of a break-in, no struggle. Her purse was still there, her keys untouched. Nothing stolen.
Yet she was gone.
Detective Owen Fields stood in the apartment, frowning at the half-eaten toast left on her plate. People don't just disappear in the middle of breakfast.
His partner, Detective Mira Hall, flipped through Lisa's phone records. "Last call was to an unregistered number. No location trace. The call lasted about… twenty seconds."
"Twenty seconds," Fields repeated. "Enough time to say something. Hear something."
Mira exhaled. "Neighbor said they didn't hear a damn thing."
Fields ran a hand down his face. He had seen strange cases before—bodies turning up miles away from where they vanished, suicides with no motive, voices on recordings that shouldn't exist.
But this?
This felt wrong.
He stepped into the bedroom, scanning the space. And that's when he saw it.
The note.
Crumpled on the floor, the edges smeared with what looked like melted chocolate.
He picked it up.
"Are you confused?"
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
"Hey," Mira called from the living room. "Check this out."
He followed. She was holding something—a small, empty cake box.
"From a bakery downtown. Simon's Bakery."
Fields narrowed his eyes. "Let's pay them a visit."
Simon's Bakery was exactly how Lisa had left it—dusty, dim, reeking of something stale.
The old man behind the counter didn't react when the detectives entered. He simply stood there, staring.
Fields flashed his badge. "Detectives. You sold a chocolate cake to a woman named Lisa Monroe. She went missing last night. Mind telling us what happened?"
The old man's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I sell a lot of cakes."
Fields felt his patience thinning. "We found a note in her apartment. Looked handwritten. Ring any bells?"
The old man didn't blink. "People leave messages all the time. Sometimes they're meant to be read. Sometimes… not."
Mira stepped forward. "Where's the order log? The one from yesterday?"
The old man sighed. Turned. Opened a drawer.
Pulled out a single slip of paper.
A receipt.
Mira grabbed it, scanning the details.
And then—her breath hitched.
"Fields…" Her voice was a whisper. "The order she placed?"
Fields glanced over her shoulder. His stomach dropped.
Lisa hadn't ordered a chocolate cake.
She had ordered nothing.
Just an empty box.
And scrawled at the bottom of the receipt—
"Are you confused?"
The bakery door slammed shut.
The phone in Fields' pocket rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
And then—the crying.
Mira's eyes widened. "Is that a kid?"
Fields didn't answer. Because the crying was growing louder.
And then, the whisper.
"Are you confused?"
Something moved in the reflection of the glass counter.
And the old man?
He was gone.
Lisa's apartment stood empty.
No one could stay there.
The first tenant after her lasted three days. He left in the middle of the night, barefoot, babbling about voices in the walls.
The second stayed one night before calling the landlord, begging to be let out of the lease.
By the third, Mr. Grayson stopped renting it out.
Because every night, without fail—
At exactly 2:17 a.m.
The door would knock.
The whispers would begin.
And somewhere, deep inside the apartment, the crying would start again.
And it never stopped.
It started with a dare. Elliot Hughes didn't believe in ghosts. He didn't believe in haunted houses, cursed objects, or things that went bump in the night. What he did believe in, however, was easy money.
And the bet was simple: Stay one night in Lisa Monroe's old apartment.
"$500 if you make it till sunrise," his friend Dave had said.
Elliot laughed, pocketed the apartment keys, and walked in at 9:47 p.m.
By 10:00 p.m., he had his feet kicked up on the coffee table, cracking open a beer. The place wasn't creepy—just dusty. The kind of forgotten space where the air felt stale, thick with someone else's past.
By 11:30 p.m., the silence was starting to get to him.
By 12:45 a.m., his beer was warm, untouched.
And by 2:17 a.m., the knocking started.
Three slow, deliberate knocks.
Elliot sat up, blinking. "Dave?" he called, voice hoarse from the dry air.
Silence.
Then—another knock.
Louder.
Closer.
Elliot swung his legs off the couch, heart drumming against his ribs. His phone was on the table, its screen glowing with a missed call.
Unknown Number.
A chill slithered down his spine. His thumb hovered over the redial button.
Then—the crying.
Soft at first, like a baby's whimper.
Then deeper. Wet. Almost… gurgling.
The sound wasn't coming from his phone.
It was coming from inside the apartment.
Elliot's breath hitched. His eyes darted toward the hallway, where the bedroom door stood slightly open. The crying was louder now, echoing from inside the walls, under the floorboards, seeping through the vents like it had always been there, just waiting for someone to listen.
The knocking came again.
Right behind him.
His phone buzzed. The same unknown number.
Elliot swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as he answered.
The line was dead for a moment. Then—
"Are you confused?"
The whisper was right in his ear.
Elliot stumbled back, nearly dropping his phone. "Who the hell is this?"
No answer.
Just… breathing. Slow. Heavy.
And then—
A click.
The call ended.
But the whisper?
It hadn't come from the phone.
Something shifted in the mirror above the fireplace. A shape, thin and wrong, standing just beyond the edge of his vision.
Elliot turned.
The mirror was empty.
The knocking returned. Faster. Desperate.
And then—the door swung open.
A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of old chocolate and something spoiled. The hallway beyond was impossibly dark, stretching further than it should have.
Elliot's body screamed at him to run.
But his phone buzzed again.
The same unknown number.
He lifted it with a shaking hand. The screen displayed only two words.
"Turn around."
Elliot did.
And screamed.
They never found his body.
The next morning, Dave arrived to collect his bet, expecting to find Elliot snoring on the couch.
Instead, he found the apartment empty.
The beer can was still on the table. The front door was locked from the inside.
But Elliot was gone.
The only thing left behind was his phone, facedown on the floor, the screen flickering with an unfinished text message.
"Are you confused?"
The apartment is still vacant.
No one stays.
No one dares.
But every so often, at 2:17 a.m., the door knocks.
And if you listen closely, you can hear it.
The crying.
Still waiting.
Still hungry.
Still calling.
Detective Owen Fields should've let it go.
Lisa Monroe was gone. Elliot Hughes was gone. The apartment had become an urban legend—another haunted place people whispered about but never dared to enter. The case had been filed away under unexplained disappearances.
But Fields couldn't stop thinking about it. About the number.
0178…
The digits gnawed at him, like something unfinished.
Something waiting.
So, at 2:17 a.m., he sat in his car outside Lisa's apartment, the engine idling, and dialed the number.
This time, someone answered.
Not a whisper. Not crying.
A man.
Calm. Precise. Like he had been expecting the call.
"Finally. You found me."
Fields' grip tightened around the phone. "Who is this?"
"You know who I am."
A shadow moved past Lisa's second-floor window. But the apartment was supposed to be empty.
"You shouldn't be here, Detective."
The call cut off.
And then—his phone vibrated again.
A new message.
"Turn around."
Fields' breath caught. He locked his jaw and slowly, deliberately, glanced into the rearview mirror.
The backseat was empty.
But his reflection wasn't alone.
A shape loomed behind him, something thin and stretched wrong.
It had no eyes. But it was watching.
Fields lunged out of the car, gun drawn. His pulse thundered in his ears.
The street was empty. Silent.
But the apartment door?
It was open.
A dark sliver of space, waiting.
The smart move was to call backup. Wait for someone else to step inside.
But Fields had never been a smart man.
He gritted his teeth and crossed the threshold.
Inside the Apartment, the air inside was thick, too heavy. The kind of stillness that made a place feel abandoned even when it wasn't.
Lisa's old furniture was still there. The couch. The kitchen table. The cracked phone is on the floor.
And the cake box.
Sitting in the center of the table, untouched.
Fields' stomach churned. He reached for it, fingers hesitant, knowing he shouldn't, knowing this was a mistake.
But he opened the lid anyway.
Inside wasn't cake.
Inside wasn't a note.
Inside was… his badge.
Fields recoiled. No. No, that wasn't possible. His badge was still clipped to his belt—he could feel it there.
Then, the whisper.
"Are you confused?"
The lights flickered. The walls groaned.
A sharp, rhythmic tapping sound filled the room—no, not tapping.
Typing.
Fields turned toward the bedroom.
The laptop on Lisa's desk was open. The screen flickered, the keyboard typing on its own.
A chat window had appeared.
And a message.
"You were supposed to disappear too."
Fields' blood turned ice cold.
The words erased themselves. A new message appeared.
"You ruined the pattern. You made a mistake."
His breath hitched. The air behind him shifted.
Something moved.
A click.
The laptop's camera had turned on.
And on the screen—
A live feed.
Of himself.
Standing in the apartment.
With someone behind him.
Smiling.
Fields didn't scream. He had trained himself not to.
But his hands shook as he turned around.
Nothing was there.
The room was empty.
The apartment door was closed.
But the chat window blinked again.
"You want the truth?"
"Then answer the call."
Fields' phone rang.
0178…
His hands trembled as he answered.
And the voice on the other end?
This time, it wasn't a whisper.
It was his own.
"Owen Fields, you were supposed to disappear."
A sharp pain exploded in his skull. The room tilted. His vision swam.
His phone dropped.
And everything—
went dark.
The Next Morning Detective Mira stood in the empty apartment, staring at Fields' abandoned phone on the floor.
There was no sign of him.
No trace.
Just a single, folded piece of paper sitting beside the untouched cake box.
She picked it up.
"Are you confused?"
A shiver crawled up her spine.
Then—her phone rang.
0178…
She didn't answer.
But the whisper came anyway.
"Turn around."
Mira froze.
The mirror on the wall?
Wasn't empty anymore.
Detective Mira Hall stood frozen in Lisa Monroe's cursed apartment, her phone buzzing in her palm.
0178…
She didn't answer.
Couldn't.
But it didn't matter.
Because the whisper came anyway.
"Turn around."
Her body refused to obey. She could feel it—the shift in the air, the weight of something watching.
Slowly, with every nerve in her body screaming against it, Mira lifted her eyes to the mirror.
And she saw it.
Not just herself.
Not just the room behind her.
But something else.
Something wrong.
A figure stood just over her shoulder. Stretched. Grinning. Hollow.
A shape too tall, too thin, too familiar.
Detective Owen Fields.
But it wasn't him. Not anymore.
His badge still gleamed on his chest, but his face—his face—was distorted, melted into something that shouldn't be possible.
His lips twisted into a slow, too-wide smile.
And he raised one rotting finger.
Pointed.
At her.
The mirror shattered.
Mira stumbled back, chest tight with terror. Glass rained down at her feet, but she barely felt it.
Her phone buzzed again.
0178…
Her breath came in ragged gasps.
She had to run. Had to leave.
But when she turned toward the apartment door—
It was gone.
The walls stretched, distorting, the room shifting like something was breathing beneath the floorboards. The furniture rotted before her eyes, turning black, curling like burnt paper.
And then—the crying.
But this time, it wasn't distant.
It was right behind her.
A child's cry. A wet, choking sob.
Mira spun—
And the walls were covered in notes.
Hundreds of them, all written in the same shaky hand.
"Are you confused?"
"Are you confused?"
"Are you confused?"
Her stomach lurched. The words were bleeding, the ink dripping onto the floor like something alive.
A breath ghosted against her ear.
"You should have answered the call."
A hand gripped her shoulder.
Cold. Wrong. Too many fingers.
Mira screamed.
Outside, the city slept.
No one saw Lisa Monroe vanish. No one saw Elliot Hughes disappear. No one had seen Owen Fields since the night he walked into the apartment.
And now, no one would ever see Mira Hall again.
The apartment door remained closed.
Her phone lay on the floor, the screen cracked but still glowing.
The last call is displayed.
"Connected: 3 minutes, 17 seconds."
The faint sound of breathing lingered from the speaker.
Then, a whisper.
"Who's next?"
The line went dead.
No one could stay in the apartment.
Landlords painted over the walls changed the locks, and gutted the place down to the wooden beams.
But at 2:17 A.M., the door still knocks.
At 3:00 A.M., the phone still rings.
And if you answer?
You don't come back.
Some say the apartment is still waiting.
For the next name.
For the next number.
For the next call.
And if you ever find a piece of paper in your home, folded neatly, smelling faintly of chocolate—
Don't open it.
Don't read it.
And whatever you do—
Don't pick up the phone.
The End.