If you’re reading this, I’m long dead. That damned thing has already gotten to me and I need to write this to make sure no one fucks up like I just did. And remember: under no circumstances, no matter how desperate, no matter how scared, even if it shreds your mind, NEVER pick up the phone.
It was a Washington winter, and the freezing rain rarely let up. I’m a rather introverted guy, so sitting inside all cozy and undisturbed was my happy place. I loved to curl up into a soft chair and scroll through various social media apps, occasionally watching the rain pour outside when my phone ran low on power.
Trying to keep my human interactions to a minimum, I bought supplies online, like food, toilet paper, and the occasional impulse buy that was in my cart before I even realized it. However, one day, a strange box sat beside my usual supplies. Resting on the concrete step was a decently sized, pale white, plastic cube. It was about the size of a small cardboard shipping box, with labels like ‘this side up’ and ‘fragile, handle with care’ printed onto its sides.
I thought to ask the delivery man about the mystery box, but by the time the thought passed my mind, the truck was already driving into the rain. My first mistake was carrying the thing into my house. After I had loaded the pile of supplies into the house, I decided to set the box onto my coffee table and poke at it a bit. Upon further inspection, I noticed that the top of the cube was actually a lid, taking a moment to pry it off with my fingernail.
Inside of the box, encased behind a thick layer of bubble wrap, was an old rotary phone. The phone was worn down and had a muted coat of red paint.
‘Hell no, I am not keeping that thing in my house’ I thought. I decided to put it up for sale on Craigslist, since it seemed like something a collector would want, and making a buck or two while getting rid of the phone couldn’t hurt. Minutes after putting up the ad, I got an email from someone going by the name of Vincent Simmons. Their writing was poorly spelled, warning me to not pick up the phone and that, if I pick up the phone, ‘it’ will know and I’ll ‘suffer a terrible fate.’ Attached to the email were a series of grizzly photos.
Each image was of a >!bloody, mangled corpse laying on the red-stained floor, twisted to the point they could barely be seen as human. Bones stuck out every which way, organs were feet from where they should be, and what skin was left could barely be seen underneath thick layers of dried blood.!< I nearly heaved, but even more chilling was the one common setpiece in every shot:
A worn rotary phone with a muted red coat of paint. The exact same one that sat on my coffee table, inside my own house.
As I began questioning why Vincent has these horrifying images, I heard a sound that made my body recoil in terror, that might as well have been the voice of the reaper beckoning me to my grave. I heard the phone ring. A shrill, tinny sound that ricocheted off of the walls and projected itself across the relatively large house. I soon gathered enough courage to carefully approach the source of the noise, tiptoeing across the house, cringing slightly every time that stupid little bell rang.
As I arrived in the living room, I saw the little thing sitting on my coffee table, determined to drive me insane until I crack and join the people in the photos. Getting sick of it’s shrieking, I wrapped a thick cloth over it, stuffed it back in it’s box, and stashed it in the deepest corner of my pantry, out of sight, out of mind.
The next few nights were agony, as although the ringing dulled down for a few hours, it was soon back to being as loud as ever, permiating the walls and spreading it’s ear-splitting cry across the house. Even worse, when I did manage to find sleep, I had a horrible nightmare, where I picked up the phone, only to be stalked by a grotesque, dog-man creature, with an emaciated frame and a massive wolf head, furless and with human teeth, clamping down on my neck when it finished messing with me.
It had been about 3 or 4 nights straight of the same nightmare and that mind-numbing, shrieking thing that was testing my limits. I had considered picking up the phone just to give me a second of relief, but I always remembered the dire consequences, until this night.
It was the same nightmare, with me walking up to the phone and hearing the answering machine, but this time, it felt lucid. The realization soon washed over me that It wasn’t a dream, not this time. In my hazy mindset, I had just sealed my own fate. I can see it dart into the shadows every time I move my eyes. I’m not going to last too much longer.
I’m putting this note on that damned phone so that the next poor soul who finds it knows what I failed to do. I guess if your reading this, you’re that poor soul. If so, I have one piece of wisdom to give you. Throw it out, sell it, get rid of it however you can. If you can’t, and it comes back, remember:
no matter how desperate, no matter how scared, even if it shreds your mind, NEVER pick up the phone.