Samuel stared at his phone for nearly ten minutes before working up the courage to dial. The screen reflected his face, pale and worn, the dark circles beneath his eyes carved deep as if he hadn't slept in days. He hadn't, not really.
Clara would pick up. Clara always picked up.
The line rang once, twice, three times.. .
"Sam?" Her voice was warm, casual, touched with the easy familiarity only a sibling could manage. "Hey, what's up? You don't usually call this late. Everything okay?"
He swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. "Not really."
There was a pause on the other end, the faint shuffle of something in the background maybe a TV show, or dishes being put away. "Oh?" she asked, still light. "What happened? You sound spooked."
Spooked. The word made his chest tighten.
"I think…" He hesitated, rubbing at his temple. "I think there's something in my apartment. Something wrong."
Another pause, and then Clara laughed. Not cruelly, just amused, as though he'd said something outlandish. "Don't tell me you're pulling some prank on me. What is this. ..research for your next horror story? You always do this when you're stuck."
"I'm serious, Clara." His voice cracked on the word.
The laughter faded, though her tone still carried disbelief. "Okay, serious how? Like… burglars? Neighbors being noisy?"
"No. It's.. ." He struggled to explain without sounding insane. "My laptop… it typed by itself. And the other day, I heard a voice. On the phone. A whisper. It said things. Things it shouldn't know."
The line went quiet, save for a faint buzz of static.
When she finally spoke, Clara sighed gently, as if humoring him. "Sam… you've been overworking again, haven't you? You always get like this when you don't sleep. Haunted laptops? Come on."
He pressed his thumb into his eye socket, fighting the heat of frustration. "I'm not imagining it."
"Then what are you saying? Ghosts? Demons?" There was laughter in her voice again, though softer this time, unsure. "Seriously, Sam, if you're scaring yourself this bad, maybe just… I don't know, close the computer, go for a walk, get some sun. Call a therapist, not me."
Her amusement stung more than if she'd outright mocked him. He wanted her to believe him. To at least consider the possibility.
"I thought about calling a psychic," he muttered.
That earned a sharp laugh. "Oh my God, you're serious. Sam, don't waste your money on some woman burning sage and waving crystals. You need sleep, not exorcisms."
"I'm not joking, Clara." His voice was low, trembling.
Something shifted in the room. Samuel froze. It was faint, but unmistakable… a scrape, like wood dragging across the floor. His heart leapt into his throat. He snapped his head toward the sound, but nothing had moved.
"Sam?" Clara's voice came through, unaware. "You still there?"
"You didn't hear that?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Hear what?"
"That sound. Like… like something dragged across the floor."
There was silence, then the faintest chuckle. "Okay, now you're just trying to freak me out. You really are in writer mode, huh?"
He shut his eyes. The loneliness pressed in all at once. She wasn't going to believe him. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
"Just. ..promise me you'll call me tomorrow?" she said, her tone finally softening, almost sisterly again. "After you've had some sleep. You'll feel better, I promise."
Samuel nodded, though she couldn't see it. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
"Good. And Sam?" Her voice lifted, teasing again. "Quit scaring yourself. Ghosts aren't real."
The call ended with a chime.
Samuel set the phone down on the coffee table, staring at it as the silence closed in again. For a long moment, the room was still.
Then he noticed it.
The phone screen was still lit, the call timer still counting upward.
The line had never really disconnected.
Samuel sat frozen, staring at the glowing screen. The call timer ticked upward, climbing past the point where Clara had said goodbye.
His chest tightened. He reached for the phone with trembling fingers and hesitated before pressing it to his ear.
Only static.
Not a voice, not even breath.. .just the endless hiss, like wind pressed against glass.
Samuel jerked it away and ended the call. His hand lingered above the phone, his thumb brushing the edge of the screen. His pulse thudded heavy in his ears.
Then, slowly, reason began to seep back in.
Clara's right, he thought. I'm exhausted. I haven't slept well in weeks. This isn't ghosts.. .it can't be.
He rubbed at his face, trying to massage away the dull ache behind his eyes. "Static on a phone line," he muttered aloud, as if saying it would make it real, logical, mundane. "That happens all the time."
His gaze drifted to the laptop on the desk, its screen closed but waiting, as if watching him. He thought of the words that had appeared on it, written without his hand. He thought of the strange whispers on the call earlier in the week.
There had to be an explanation.
Pushing himself up, he crossed the room, opened the laptop, and began typing furiously. Laptop typing on its own. Strange static on phone calls. Weird voices.
Search results spilled across the screen: endless forums, tech blogs, troubleshooting threads. The words hacked and monitored repeated again and again.
Samuel leaned forward, scanning each headline. His heart pounded. . .not with fear now, but with a sharp flicker of certainty.
Of course.
It wasn't ghosts. It wasn't demons or hauntings. Someone was watching him, maybe even messing with him. His laptop, his phone.. .it was all just intrusion, not the supernatural.
He let out a shaky laugh, equal parts relief and nerves. "Yeah. That's it. I'm not haunted. I'm hacked."
The explanation resonated with him so strongly it felt like a lifeline. Something tangible. Something real.
And yet… as he sat back, the cursor blinked on the search bar, waiting. A pulse of white light against the black screen. Steady. Patient.
Almost like it was listening.