Creepypasta, Horror stories, and more

Don't ever answer a call from your own number

Creepypasta #6

I received the first call at seven in the morning. There I was, eyes closed and soundly snoring under the comfort of a heavy blanket, when the ascending clangerous jangle of my phones ring tone broke the spell of beautiful sleep.

‘Naturally’ I thought to myself curmudgeonly as consciousness was forced upon me.

I let it ring until it stopped. Though I was more than a bit annoyed at being roused from such satisfying slumber, I soon slipped back into the grasp of sweet dreams.

I woke an hour later. I had a coffee, brushed my teeth, hopped in the shower and inspected my reflection in the mirror to make sure I was still passable as mildly attractive.

‘Not going downhill yet Timothy,’ I said to myself, as I did every morning in some sort of ego enforcing ritualistic exorcise.

At 8:25, with my ‘monkey suit’ neatly in place, I headed out the door and down four floors via elevator ready to start my day at Crawford, Crawford and Reynolds. You guessed it, law firm gopher.

My phone began to vibrate in my blazer pocket, as it periodically does when a call is missed and the notification has gone unseen. ‘Maybe I won another Caribbean Cruise,’ I thought sarcastically to myself.

When I flipped it open I saw this:

Missed Call

November 7. 7:00 A.M.

(310) 542-**89.

This was odd because that was my phone number. I puzzled over it briefly when the elevator gave a ding. As the doors slid open I gave a shrug, grunted a quick hmph and was done with the matter.

The rest of the day was mundanely routine. I won’t bore you with the details…suffice to say that despite the suit, my job entailed making a lot of coffee, xeroxing a lot of papers and speaking my officetime catchphrase to waiting clientele: Mr. Crawford will see you now.

After work I met my best friend Ben at the Toxic Manhattan, a sort of trendy ‘hipster meets corporate’ bar that I frequented often to unwind or pickup girls. There was more photocopying than usual today and I was a bit fatigued, so trying to get laid was not really in my gameplan.

“So this dipshit who took the bar exam five fucking times was made a god damned associate.” Ben said as we glugged down our mugs of imported Viennese Hiefewiesen.

Everyone was a dipshit to Ben, except me of course. But that exception likely only extended to me so long as I was in his company. “And you wan’t to know why? Because his God damned last name is Seymour and the old man thought that that was ‘quaint.'” Ben was a junior associate for Seymour and Seymour Law and always had an ax to grind about something related to his work.

I was beginning to get bored of his complaints when God granted me a small favor, or at least I thought so. My phone began to ring.

“Hey Ben, I got to head out pal this is a very import-” I looked down at the call screen and saw it again: incoming call (310) 542-**89.

“What the….,” I said, not really to anyone at all.

“What’s up?” Ben asked.

“This is the second time today I’ve gotten a call from my own number.”

Bens face went from mild indifference to child-like interest and before I could do anything he pulled the phone from my hand and flipped it open.

“Yo, this is the Benjamin,” he spoke into the reciever.