The call - Ghostface x reader

Then the phone rang. Not your sleek smartphone buzzing on the coffee table-no, this was the old landline in the kitchen, the one that still had the same shrill ring from when your grandparents lived here. Your head snapped toward the sound, soda can freezing mid-tilt. Nobody called that number anymore. Nobody could. You'd had it disconnected years ago after the third telemarketer called during dinner. But it rang again. And again. Each ring sharper than the last, like something was twisting the sound tighter with every repetition. The movie's sound swelled behind you, some orchestral stab timed perfectly with your pulse as you stood.

As you walked into the kitchen the tiles were cold under your bare feet, the kind of cold that made you think of morgue slabs and abandoned gas stations at midnight. Your hand hovered over the receiver. It was dusty. "Hello?" Your voice sounded small, swallowed by the dark. The line crackled with static-not the white noise of a bad connection, Then a low voice spoke: "You like scary movies?"