This Call Is Coming From Inside The House

This Call is Coming From Inside the House

The phone rang, a shrill, insistent tone that cut through the silence of the old house.  Sarah, curled up on the worn velvet sofa, flinched.  It was late, almost 3 am.  She hadn't heard the phone ring in months, not since her grandmother, the last resident of this rambling Victorian, had passed away.

She hesitated, then picked up the receiver.  "Hello?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Static.  A low, crackling hum.  Then, a voice, raspy and distorted, like it was being played through a tin can.  "Hello?  Can you hear me?"

Sarah's heart hammered against her ribs.  "Who is this?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"It's me," the voice rasped, closer now, almost in her ear.  "It's... her."

Sarah's blood ran cold.  "Her?" she choked out, her mind racing.  Her grandmother.  But how?  She was gone.

"She's... here," the voice hissed, a chilling laugh following.  "She's always here."

Sarah dropped the phone, her hand shaking.  She scrambled to her feet, her eyes darting around the darkened room.  The air felt heavy, thick with an unseen presence.  She could almost feel a cold breath on the back of her neck.

She had to get out of there.  She ran to the front door, fumbling with the lock.  It wouldn't budge.  Panic surged through her.  She was trapped.

The phone rang again, the sound echoing in the silence.  This time, the voice was clearer, closer.  "You can't escape me, Sarah," it said, a cruel amusement in its tone.  "This house... it's my home.  And you're my guest."

Sarah screamed, her voice lost in the vast emptiness of the house.  The phone continued to ring, a relentless, mocking chime.  She sank to the floor, her back against the cold, unyielding wood of the door.  The house was alive, she realized, and it was hungry.

The phone stopped ringing.  Silence descended, broken only by the rhythmic drip of water from a leaky faucet somewhere in the house.  Then, a soft whisper, almost inaudible, reached her ears.  "Welcome home, Sarah."

The whisper was followed by a chilling laugh, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.  Sarah closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face.  She was trapped, alone, in a house that was no longer a home, but a prison.  And the only guest it wanted was her.

The phone rang again, but Sarah didn't answer.  She knew, with a chilling certainty, that this call was coming from inside the house, and it was never going to stop.  It was just the beginning.

The phone rang again, but Sarah didn't answer.  She knew, with a chilling certainty, that this call was coming from inside the house, and it was never going to stop.  It was just the beginning.

Sarah sat on the floor, her back against the cold, unyielding wood of the door, listening to the silence.  The air felt thick with an unseen presence, and the only sound was the rhythmic drip of water from a leaky faucet somewhere in the house.  She could almost feel a cold breath on the back of her neck, a sensation that sent shivers down her spine.

She had inherited this house from her grandmother, a woman she barely knew.  Her grandmother had always been a recluse, living in this grand old house with only her memories and her cats for company.  Sarah had never been close to her, but she had always felt a strange pull towards this house, a sense of belonging that she couldn't quite explain.

Now, she was alone in the house, surrounded by her grandmother's belongings, and the feeling of belonging had turned into a chilling sense of dread.  She felt like she was being watched, like something was lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

She stood up, her legs trembling, and walked towards the phone.  She had to know who was calling her.  She had to know what was happening.  She picked up the receiver, her hand shaking.

"Hello?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Silence.  Then, a soft whisper, almost inaudible, reached her ears.  "You're home now, Sarah."

The whisper was followed by a chilling laugh, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.  Sarah dropped the phone, her hand shaking.  She scrambled to her feet, her eyes darting around the darkened room.  The air felt heavy, thick with an unseen presence.  She could almost feel a cold breath on the back of her neck.

She had to get out of there.  She ran to the front door, fumbling with the lock.  It wouldn't budge.  Panic surged through her.  She was trapped.

She turned and ran towards the back of the house, her heart pounding in her chest.  She had to find a way out.  She had to escape.

She burst into the kitchen, her eyes scanning the room.  The kitchen was dark and cluttered, filled with her grandmother's old appliances and forgotten cookware.  There was a window above the sink, but it was barred.  There was no way out.

She turned and ran back towards the front of the house, her mind racing, trying to find a way out.  She ran past the living room, the dining room, the library, her eyes scanning each room, searching for a way out.

She stopped in the hallway, her breath coming in ragged gasps.  She was trapped.  There was no escape.

The phone rang again.  She knew it was coming from inside the house, but she didn't know where.  She didn't know what to do.

She picked up the receiver, her hand shaking.  "Hello?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"You're home now, Sarah," the voice whispered, a chilling laugh following.  "And you're never leaving."

Sarah dropped the phone, her hand shaking.  She sank to the floor, her back against the cold, unyielding wall.  She was trapped, alone, in a house that was no longer a home, but a prison.  And the only guest it wanted was her.

The phone rang again, but Sarah didn't answer.  She knew, with a chilling certainty, that this call was coming from inside the house, and it was never going to stop.  It was just the beginning.

The house was alive, and it was hungry.  And Sarah was its prey.