One Call Before Midnight
The digital clock on Ben’s nightstand glowed 11:58 PM. Two minutes until the birthday he’d been dreading. The first one without Sarah. He was about to shut off the lamp, surrendering to another night of fitful sleep, when his phone vibrated—a harsh, jarring sound in the silent apartment.
Unknown Caller.
His thumb hovered over the "Decline" button. But something, a gut-deep pull, made him swipe answer.
"Hello?"
A frantic, breathless voice, a woman’s, tore through the line. "Ben? Ben, it's me! Listen, you have to listen! They’re going to kill me. They think I know about the fire at the warehouse on Pier 12. You have to prove I wasn't there!"
Ben sat bolt upright, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. "Who is this? You have the wrong number."
"It's Chloe!" she sobbed, the name meaning nothing to him. "Please, you're my one call. They only gave me one call before midnight. I dialed your number by instinct. It’s burned in my mind. Please, you have to find the security footage from the Dockside Inn. It shows me miles away! The time stamp is 1:17 AM."
Ben’s blood ran cold. The Dockside Inn? That was where he and Sarah had spent their anniversary, the last happy memory he had. He looked at the clock. 11:59.
"Look, Chloe, I think—"
"There's no time! They're coming back! The file is in their system under 'Maintenance Log Alpha.' Please, Ben. My life is in your hands."
The line went dead.
Silence rushed back in, thick and heavy. 12:00 AM. Midnight.
Ben sat in the dark, his skin crawling. A wrong number? A prank? But the terror in her voice was too real, too raw. And how did she know his name? How did she know about the Dockside Inn, a place so personal to him?
Driven by a compulsion he didn't understand, he lunged for his laptop. His fingers flew across the keyboard, hacking into the Dockside Inn’s rudimentary security system—a skill from his less-than-legal college days. He found the archive for the night of the warehouse fire.
His breath hitched. There it was: 'Maintenance Log Alpha.'
He clicked it open. It wasn't a maintenance log. It was a video file from an exterior camera, timestamped 1:17 AM. The footage showed the hotel's back parking lot. A woman—Chloe, he presumed—was clearly visible, arguing with a man. She was right. She was miles from the pier.
But as Ben focused on the man in the video, his world tilted on its axis. It was Sarah’s brother, Mark. A man the police said had died with Sarah in the car accident six months ago. A man who was very much alive, and on camera, the night of a deadly fire.
Ben’s phone buzzed again. A new text, from the same unknown number.
Unknown: Thank you. The file is safe. Now you know the accident wasn't an accident. They're coming for you next. Don't trust anyone.
Ben stared at the screen, the walls of his apartment suddenly feeling like a prison. The one call before midnight hadn't been a plea for help. It had been a warning. Delivered to him#usmanwrites#usmanshaikh#usm
#OneCallBeforeMidnight#Thriller #Suspense #MysteryStory #ShortStory #PsychologicalThriller #WrongNumber #RaceAgainstTime #ConspiracyThriller #DarkFiction
