Calls

When I was nine years old, someone would often call us on the phone and remain silent. Literally every day, someone would call us, and when we answered, there was no word on the other end—only the sound of steady breathing. Soon, my parents forbade me from answering the phone, and they themselves only answered occasionally. The calls only stopped six months later. I'd almost forgotten about it, but recently I've been forced to remember.

A couple of weeks ago, no one was home—my parents had gone to the country. I was mopping the floor when I heard the landline ring—a rare occurrence these days.

"Hello," I said, picking up the phone.

Someone was breathing into the receiver and didn't answer.

"I'm listening, go ahead," I repeated, thinking the other person simply hadn't heard me the first time.

The other person remained silent.

"Who are you? Stop making fun of me!" "I said into the phone a little more harshly.

A most disgusting sound came from the speaker, like someone scraping a knife across glass. I hung up. The calls didn't stop after that, and only when I unplugged the phone did the apartment finally become quiet.

I vividly recalled the strange calls from my childhood. Frightened by all this, I surfed the internet, listened to music, and seemed to calm down. Then, after drinking some mint tea, I went to bed.

At two in the morning, I suddenly woke up: I had a strong feeling that someone was in my room. Afraid to get up, I lay face down in the pillow. I was about to fall asleep again, but then I heard the same sound coming from the phone—like someone scraping a knife across glass. The sound was coming from the window. I jumped up, turned on the light, and looked at the window. It was covered in scratches.

My parents arrived only in the afternoon. When I told them what happened, they believed me right away—apparently they hadn't forgotten those disturbing calls from the past either.

My father turned off his phone completely—everyone has one anyway, and it hadn't been in use for the last year. The police came and examined the scratches on the window and said they really did look like knife marks. But we live on the sixth floor, and my bedroom doesn't have a balcony!

So far, nothing unusual has happened since then, but I'm still really scared at night.