The Call

Scene: A rainy evening. Thunder rumbles in the distance as rain taps steadily against the window of a modest apartment. The dim lighting casts long, restless shadows across the room. The faint flicker of a nearby streetlamp seeps through the blinds, adding a melancholic glow to the space. A landline phone rings, sharp and intrusive, cutting through the ambient rain pattern. Sitting on her worn couch with a half-read book resting on her lap, Claire stiffens. She glances at the phone, her heart thumping at the unexpected sound as if it doesn't fit into her tranquil evening. After a moment's hesitation, she picks it up.

Claire: Hello?

The line crackles faintly, followed by a pause so long it feels static. Then, a calm and deliberate voice speaks.

Stranger: Is this 555-3248?

Claire: Yes, who is this?

The voice carries a weight that makes her sit up straighter.

Stranger: You don't know me, but I must talk to you.

Claire frowns, her grip on the receiver tightening. Her free hand instinctively brushes the edge of her book, the texture grounding her in an unreal moment. Her eyes dart to the rain-speckled window, searching for a reason and context to anchor the odd exchange.

Claire: I think you have the wrong number.

Stranger: No, Claire. I don't.

Her name hits her like a sharp slap, causing her breath to catch. The stranger's calm, steady tone unnerves her. A chill creeps up her spine as she glances around the small apartment. The corners of the room seem darker now, with the shadows stretching like tendrils toward her.

Claire: (pause) How do you know my name?

Stranger: That's not important. What matters is that you listen to me. You're not safe.

Her mind races. A thousand explanations surge forward, each more implausible than the last. Her voice wavers, though she forces an edge of firmness into her tone.

Claire: (sharply) Excuse me?

Her grip on the receiver tightens, and her knuckles whiten. An involuntary tremor beneath her surface betrays the facade of control she's trying to project.

Stranger: Please, just listen. There's no time to explain everything.

You need to leave your apartment now. Don't pack a bag; don't waste a second. Just go.

Claire blinks, her mind catching onto the sheer absurdity of the command. She lets out a nervous laugh, though it sounds hollow even to her ears.

Claire: Okay, seriously, who put you up to this? Was it Nina? She's always pulling this kind of...

Stranger: This isn't a joke, Claire.

The voice pierces her deflection with a sharp edge. Thunder crashes outside, shaking the windows and masking the sound of her sharp inhale. Claire stands instinctively, the book falling from her lap.

Her bare feet press against the cold hardwood floor, grounding her again in the surreal moment.

Claire: (voice rising) I don't know who you are, but...

Stranger: (interrupting) Look out your window.

Her heartbeat quickens. She hesitates, clutching the receiver as though it's the only thing tethering her to reality. Slowly, she moves to the window, her hand shaking as she pulls back the blinds. The street below is drenched in the rain, but her eyes immediately land on a figure standing across the street, motionless under the flickering light of a street lamp. Their face is obscured by a hood, their silhouette unnervingly still. Claire's breath catches as the figure tilts its head, as though she is aware she is watching.

Stranger: Now, do you believe me?

Claire stumbles back from the window, her heart pounding. The receiver trembles in her hand; her voice is a hoarse whisper.

Claire: Who is that?

Stranger: Someone who shouldn't be there. Leave. Now.

Claire glances toward the door of her apartment, her mind spinning with questions. The shadows in the room seem to deepen, pressing in around her. She feels the weight of the stranger's words; the urgency is unmistakable. Her instincts scream at her to move, but fear roots her in place.

The voice cuts through her attempt at humour, sudden and sharp, freezing her mid-sentence.

Stranger: I wouldn't call if it weren't serious.

Claire: (snapping) I don't even know who you are. Why would I trust anything you're saying?

Stranger: I've been watching and know about the black car parked across the street.

Claire's emotions become numb. Earlier, she had barely noticed the car, attributing it to a neighbour’s visitor or someone sheltering from the rain. Now, the memory of its presence sharpens, and her hands shake as she edges toward the window. Her voice drops to a whisper.

Claire: How do you...

Stranger: It's been there for hours, hasn't it? Two men inside. They're waiting for something or someone.

The stranger's words weigh her down, causing her to hesitate. Slowly, she reaches for the curtain, pulling it back just enough to see. Her heart hammers as her gaze locks onto the sleek black car parked beneath the flickering streetlamp. The rain cascades off its hood, dark windows like mirrors, revealing nothing of what lies inside. Her breath catches in her throat, her voice trembling as she forces the question out.

Claire: (voice trembling) Who are they?

Stranger: Not friends. That's all you need to know.

Her stomach twists. Her mind races, trying to make sense of the situation. She looks back at the car as though staring long enough will unlock some clue to their presence. The thought of being watched targets claws at her sanity.

Claire: (hoarse whisper) Why would they be watching me?

Stranger: You have something they want. Or maybe someone you know does. It doesn't matter. People perceive you as a solitary figure.

Her vision blurs with rising panic. She steps back from the window, her hand gripping the curtain as though it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes dart around the apartment, scanning the familiar clutter - her jacket slung over a chair, an unopened stack of mail on the kitchen counter, and the half-empty glass of wine on the table - as if the answer might be hiding there. But nothing makes sense.

Claire: (frantic) I don't understand. I'm just an office manager. I don't...

Stranger: (interrupting, firm) Claire, focus. You're wasting time. Leave now. Take the fire escape. Don't use the front door.

Her head spins; the idea of fleeing overwhelms her senses. Rain drums against the window, matching the frantic beat of her heart. She stumbles toward the couch, snatching up her phone and keys, her voice rising in a desperate plea.

Claire: (shaking her head) And go where?

Stranger: Anywhere but there. Head toward the train station. Don't stop until you're in a crowded place.

She freezes, gripping the phone tightly, her knuckles white. Her voice drops to a whisper, tears threatening to spill.

Claire: (choking) I don't know if I can trust you.

[The line goes silent for a beat, but when the voice returns, it's colder, steelier, a warning laced with urgency.]

Stranger: You don't have to trust me. But if you stay, they will come inside. And they won't knock.

The words struck her deeply. A fresh wave of fear courses through her as a sound cuts through the rain - a distant car door shutting. Claire’s breath hitches. She turns back to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to see a shadowy figure step out of the black car. Another figure follows, their movements deliberate and synchronized. One figure adjusts their coat, and for a fleeting moment, she notices the gleam of something metallic at their side.

Stranger: (urgently) Claire. Go. Now.

Her breath tightens in her throat. The phone slips from her hand, clattering onto the table as adrenaline takes over. She bolts for the window leading to the fire escape, fumbling with the latch. The rain hisses against the glass, and the faint hum of voices from the street grows louder. She freezes as a sharp knock echoes from the front door. It's noisy, firm, and final. The sound reverberates through the apartment like a countdown.

Stranger: (from the fallen receiver, faint) Don't look back. Just run.

The rain outside grows heavier, drumming against the window as if urging her to act. Claire stands paralyzed, her feet rooted to the floor, and her mind caught between disbelief and the suffocating weight of fear.

Claire: (growing frantic, picking up the phone) Wait. I need more than this. I need answers! Who are you? How do you know all of this?

There's a long pause on the other end; the silence is so profound that she can hear her shaky breaths. When the voice returns, it's softer, almost regretful.

Stranger: Someone who owes you a debt. A big one.

Claire: (confused) A debt? I don't even know you.

Stranger: You don't remember, but you saved my life once. And now, I'm saving yours.

Her thoughts whirl, memories colliding in her mind like shattered glass. Fragments of the past flash before her - small acts of kindness, fleeting interactions with strangers. But then, one moment stands out. Years ago, she pulled an injured man out of a wrecked car on a rainy night like this one. The metallic tang of blood, the desperate sound of his gasps, and her trembling hands pressed against his wound until paramedics arrived. His face, pale and bleeding, swims into focus in her mind.

Claire: (voice shaking) Is this about that car accident? Were you...

Stranger: (firmly) There's no time for questions. Go now, Claire. I'll call you again when it's safe.

The phone clicks, the line going dead. The finality of the sound lingers in her ears. Claire stands frozen, the receiver still pressed to her ear, her knuckles white. She flinches as a crack of thunder rattles the windows. Slowly, she lowers the phone, her eyes drifting back to the window. The black car remains motionless, but now a faint glow of a cigarette flares inside. Her chest tightens as she stares at the tiny ember, an ominous beacon in the darkness.

Claire: (to herself, whispering) What the hell is going on?

Suddenly, a faint creak from the hallway shatters the silence. Her heart leaps into her throat, her breath catching. She spins toward the sound, her eyes wide and searching. The noise could be anything - the old building settling, a neighbour - but now it feels like a warning. The hairs on her arms rise, and instinct takes over.

She grabs her jacket and keys from the couch, her movements hurried and clumsy. Without a second thought, she moves to the window. The rain lashes at the glass, its icy touch shocking her as she forces the stubborn frame open. The fire escape looms outside, a slick, glistening path into the storm.

Climbing through, the cold rain instantly soaks her, plastering her hair to her face. The metal beneath her feet is treacherous, every step a gamble. She grips the railing tightly, her knuckles aching as she descends.

Below her, the black car suddenly roars to life. The headlights snap on, slicing through the downpour. She catches her breath. A door slams, and a tall, shadowy figure steps out. Their movements are purposeful and unhurried. Claire doesn't wait to see more.

She runs, her feet slipping on the slick fire escape as she reaches the ground. The rain blurs her vision, each drop like a needle against her skin. Her breath is ragged, her pulse pounding in her ears.

Behind her, the unmistakable sound of footsteps splashing in the water pools echoes through the narrow alley. The sound is steady and deliberate.

(A voice, not the Stranger's, pierces the storm with a low, menacing call.)

Voice: Claire, stop. You can't run forever.

The words twist in her mind, each syllable heavy with malice. She doesn't look back. Every instinct screams at her to keep moving. She darts into an alley, her feet slipping on the wet concrete. The flickering streetlamps overhead cast eerie shadows that seemed to chase her.

Although the train station isn't far away, every step feels like a lifetime. Her muscles burn, her lungs ache, but she pushes forward, the Stranger's voice echoing in her mind.

Stranger's Voice (in her mind): You're not safe.

As the rain intensifies, so does her determination. Each crack of thunder feels like a countdown; each shadow is a threat. She is confident that she cannot stop. Whatever this is, whatever danger is hunting her, standing still means death. And Claire isn't ready to die.

[End.]