The phone rang.
That old, shrill ring—a landline tone, obsolete and insistent—cut through the silence like a blade through gauze. Each pulse of sound felt like a needle stitching dread straight into Darren's spine.
He stood alone in a hallway that felt too narrow, too red. The carpet squished underfoot like soaked fabric, and the wallpaper pulsed faintly, as if the building itself were breathing. Dim sconces flickered along the corridor, throwing twitching shadows against the walls.
He didn't remember arriving here.
But the ringing pulled him forward.
Rrrrring.
He walked, uncertain if it was movement or compulsion. The hallway stretched in impossible directions—twisting, curling inward on itself like a maze drawn by a sadist. Doors emerged on either side, marked with numbers that changed every time he looked—3A became 13B, then HELP, then just static lines crawling across metal.
A window appeared to his left. He peered through it.
Only his own reflection stared back. Tired. Washed out. There was something accusatory in the eyes. His.
Rrrrring.
Then silence.
A breath of stillness.
Then the phone began again, louder than before, jagged and cruel.
He turned a corner and found the source: a single pedestal bathed in spotlight, centered in an otherwise black void. A rotary phone sat on it—glossy black, the kind no one used anymore. The coiled cord dangled off the edge like something alive.
He didn't need to see the label.
He knew that phone.
Knew that ring.
He'd heard it once before. Not metaphorically. Not in some dramatized recollection. Literally.
That night.
The night Eden died.
It rang once. Twice. He'd looked at the screen—her name glowing, blurry through a haze of exhaustion and whiskey. His thumb hovered over "Answer." Then it fell away.
He told himself he'd call back.
He never did.
He never even listened to the message.
His stomach curdled.
Rrrrring.
Darren stepped toward the pedestal. His hand shook as he reached out and lifted the receiver.
Static.
Then—
"Darren?" Eden's voice. Small. Strained. Wet with held-back tears. "Hey. I—I didn't know who else to call."
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Please," she whispered. "I can't—I can't keep being the joke. I know I should be stronger. But I don't think I am."
Her voice cracked.
"I just needed to hear someone say I wasn't nothing."
Then the line went dead.
Click.
He stood, still holding the phone to his ear, hand trembling so hard it might shatter.
And then—
Rrrrring.
The phone began again, this time shrieking through the receiver.
He dropped it.
It crashed against the pedestal and fell to the floor.
But the ringing didn't stop.
He kicked the pedestal over—shattering the phone into splinters.
Silence.
Relief.
Until a new sound rose—first faint, then deafening.
Ringing.
From everywhere.
He spun around.
Phones were growing from the walls. Thousands of them. Rotaries. Flip phones. Payphones. Smartphones with cracked screens. Mounted on walls. Hanging from cords. Lined up like sentries.
Each one blinked: 1 New Voicemail.
They rang in a hideous chorus.
"Darren, hey—it's Eden…"
"…Can you call me back…"
"…I didn't know who else…"
"…Are you there? Hello?"
He clutched his head. "Stop!"
But the sound only grew.
"…Just wanted to talk…"
"…I'm scared…"
"…I thought you cared…"
He tore one off the wall and smashed it. It burst into smoke. Two more appeared in its place.
He hit another. And another. Plastic and glass cut into his skin, but he couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe. The voices poured over each other like an ocean of regret.
And then—
His own voice joined them.
Recordings. Messages he'd left her.
"Hey, can't make it tonight."
"Sorry I missed your text, slammed right now."
"Saw your post—kinda dark, huh? Didn't think you were serious."
The walls echoed with both their voices. Pleas and dismissals on endless loop.
The hallway morphed again—walls pulling back, becoming a sterile retail space. A phone store. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Posters smiled down at him: people holding devices, looking cheerful and connected.
In the center: a lone cassette recorder, perched on a velvet stool. A cassette sat inside, labeled in messy handwriting:
EDEN – LAST TAPE.
He approached it.
Pressed play.
Her voice came through—quieter now. Resigned.
"You're not a bad person, Darren. You're just… comfortable. And comfort doesn't answer the phone when someone's dying in real time."
A pause.
Then:
"I guess this is the punchline, huh?"
He staggered back.
His throat tightened.
Then—from his coat pocket—his own phone vibrated.
He hadn't felt it before. But now it was there. Familiar. Old. Cracked.
He pulled it out.
One notification: 1 Unheard Voicemail.
His thumb hovered.
He pressed it.
And the world shifted.
Suddenly, he was in his old apartment. The air smelled like takeout and spilled whiskey. There he was—past Darren—slouched on the couch, shirt untucked, glassy-eyed, scrolling mindlessly.
The phone rang on the table.
Eden's name glowed on the screen.
Past Darren looked at it.
Paused.
Then let it ring out.
The screen dimmed.
Voicemail left.
Present Darren stood behind himself, a ghost in his own memory.
"Pick it up," he whispered.
Nothing.
"Please—pick it up."
Still nothing.
The lights dimmed. The air thickened. The phone vibrated again, but this time, the screen didn't show her name. Only one message:
TOO LATE.
He picked it up.
It crumbled to ash in his hands.
And from somewhere deep, a final voice asked:
"Would it have changed anything?"
He didn't know.
He wanted to scream "Yes."
Instead, he whispered, "I should've tried."
The ash scattered across the carpet like snow.
The walls peeled away. The phones fell silent.
Only one remained.
A simple silver flip phone. No sound. Just blinking:
Message Saved.
He picked it up.
A door appeared.
Exit sign glowing above it.
He slipped the silver phone into his coat, wiped his bloodied hands on his jeans, and walked forward.
He didn't look back.