Yaw lived alone after his breakup, renting a small apartment near the outskirts of Accra. He wasn’t afraid of being alone—until the calls began. The first came at 2:11 AM. His phone buzzed with a number he didn’t recognize: Private Caller. Yaw frowned.
“Who calls at this hour?”
He answered. Silence. But not empty silence, breathing. Slow, raspy, close. Too close.
“Hello?”
The breathing stopped. A whisper slithered through the speaker:
“I like your apartment.”
Yaw hung up, heart racing. He checked the windows, the door, the peephole everything was locked. The next night, the caller returned.
“Stop calling me,”
Yaw snapped. The whisper answered:
“I’m already inside.”
Yaw froze. He looked around.
The apartment was still.
Too still. He forced himself to speak.
“Where are you?”
The caller giggled.
“Turn around… slowly…”
Yaw did and there was nothing. He threw his phone across the room. But the calls continued every night. Sometimes the caller described exactly what Yaw was doing:
“You should drink water. Your lips are dry.”
“Don’t go to sleep yet.”
“Why did you lock that window? I liked it open.”
One night, Yaw tried to record the call. The whisper said:
“Record me and I’ll use your voice too.”
Yaw smashed the phone. So the creature used the house phone instead. Then the TV. Then the microwave. Then the shower drain. No matter where he hid, the whisper followed, always speaking from whatever device or object could carry sound.
But one night, the whisper came from right beside his ear, not through any device. Yaw didn’t change phones. He didn’t change apartments. The Cold Caller had simply finished moving in. And now it whispers to him in his sleep, practicing his voice. Soon it will get it right. And once it doe, only one Yaw will wake up.
