The Number You Shouldn’t Call
In the heart of a nondescript English town, the pub called The Crown was a hub of local tales, not just for its ales. It was here that conversation swirled around the mundane and the inexplicable, a blend of banter and cautionary wisdom. Among the raucous laughter, the legend of “The Number You Shouldn’t Call” lay simmering beneath the surface, dissected and debated by the locals. Rumours had it that if one dared to dial 07889 888 886, an entity would answer—the very one who had once answered the desperate plea of a now-missing teenager.
To most, the number was just another urban legend, ignited by a tragic disappearance that everyone recalled but few had witnessed. Among the regulars, Jess was known for her cynical outlook, dismissing most superstitions with her rational wit. But curiosity sometimes crawled beneath her skin, gnawing at her reason. When Tom, the newest bartender, recounted the tale on a particularly slow Tuesday, Jess found herself unusually attentive.
“They say you hear laughter,” Tom said, leaning over the bar. The clientele hushed in anticipation. “But it’s the type that chills you to the bone. You laugh, but then the laughter just carries on…on its own. Just like the number.”
Jess rolled her eyes but felt some stir in her gut. “Right, let’s just confirm that ghosts have good reception.” She shrugged and tossed a crumpled fiver onto the bar.
Tom smirked, “Better than a tenner, sweetheart. But mark my words, play around with it, and you might find out why this number is the town’s dirty secret.”
Later, when her friends had left and the night softened into tired murmurs, a flicker of challenge sparked in Jess’s mind. After all, gossip was all well and good but proving a legend false was too tempting. Back at her flat, surrounded by the comforting familiarity of her mess, she fiddled with her phone, holding the device as if it were cursed.
When the dial tone echoed in her ears, Jess felt a thrill. After a few rings, a voice broke through, young and fleeting. “Hello?” It was as if it drifted on the wind, yet was intimately near.
“Who’s this?” she asked, half-challenging, half-expecting a prank.
“Tell me a joke,” the voice replied, bright with mischief. Then came laughter, delicate, a blend of joy and something dark, coiling in the still air of her flat. Jess felt a disquiet creep in, feeling oddly isolated. “I know a joke… a real good one,” the voice purred.
“Alright, you in?” she said, trying to inject bravado into her tone.
“Why didn’t the skeleton go to the party?”
And with an absurdity that surprised her, Jess shouted back, “Because he had no body to go with!”
The laughter returned, thrilling but undeniably unsettling. With a quick breath, Jess hung up, her heart racing not from fear but from sheer confusion. Maybe it was simply a prank; her friends were cheeky like that. She shook off the unease and turned over to sleep, caging away what she’d just done into a corner of her consciousness.
The following day, Jess couldn’t shake the feeling. The voice haunted her, and as she walked through town, she noticed whispers and furtive glances exchanged among her neighbours. Had they sensed something? It escalated when she encountered an old woman, Mrs Finn, who was often confined to her armchair, knitting as swathes of gossip floated around. Today, her stare was sharp.
“Stay away from that number, Jess,” she said suddenly, her voice low and wrinkled with urgency. “They don’t want you meddling. Nothing good comes of it.”
“You’re serious?” Jess scoffed. “It’s a joke.”
“You think it’s amusing?” Mrs Finn’s fingers trembled. “You want that laughter? It doesn’t stop when you want it.”
With that, the chilling sense of foreboding slid into her chest, but Jess refused to be intimidated. That evening, she submitted to the pull of curiosity one more time. Another call, another giggle resounding through the phone. This time, it felt more alive, more tangible, as if the spirit of the call gathered weight. Her palms grew clammy. Jess ended it quickly, keen to shake off the peculiar dread.
The next day, a boy named Ethan, a familiar face from her childhood, went missing. The town swelled with fear and rumour. Jess felt the weight of everyone’s eyes, questioning if it was more than coincidence. When she shared her experience with friends, they dismissed her idea that the number was connected, opting for generic fears instead. But a cauldron of anxiety churned in her gut, boiling over as she took a walk in the woods, a shadow of guilt wrapping around her.
A snap of branches made her jump. Turning, she spotted Ethan’s mother, pale and frantic. “We need to find him.”
In the ensuing days, Ethan’s absence engulfed the community. An unsettling presence settled over the town, a weight that made Jess reconsider her dismissals. That evening, she could not resist the urge any longer. She dialled the number again, desperation swelling in her chest. She wanted answers, a way to heal the tear in their reality.
“Jess,” that familiar voice came. Laughter threaded through—deceptive and intimate.
“Why Ethan? What do you want?” she asked, almost pleading.
“Don’t you like games?” is how it replied, followed by a silence that suffocated her. The phone slipped through her fingers, the weight of dread realising its finality. Ethan’s name echoed in her mind as she realised her folly.
To calm herself, she called one last time, seeking to undo the unfolding chaos. “Stop, please, I just want him back!”
“Too late,” a voice derided with the laughter, sharp as glass. The line went dead.
That was Wednesday. On Thursday morning, curtains twitched in every window as the news swirled. Ethan had returned. He stumbled onto the street later that night, eyes hollow, grinning eerily. They found him giggling under a tree, pointing to the branches as if they held secrets. But something in his laughter was wrong—so wrong.
Fury and regret wrestled within Jess. Her friends steered clear, nervous laughter punctuating conversations. Rumours flickered like candlelight in dark corners about Jess’s call, murmuring that she had essentially called the laughter down upon them all. Like a contagion, laughter grew strained in its presence, threatening to fracture their world as they began to avoid the lighthearted gatherings that had once connected them.
As the sun set, Jess sat in her flat, alone with her thoughts. She had seen Ethan the day before. He hadn’t been the same. Laughter had become the town’s language but now it felt twisted, each chuckle a reminder of what had been traded. The charm of the pub was stale, replaced by an unnameable presence that lingered like fog. Fear had settled amongst the townsfolk, tightening its grip.
And though they brushed it off as an obsession, Jess knew the truth. The legend would never die; it thrived now in whispers, in eyes that darted nervously, linking back to the number no one dared dial. As she scrolled through her messages, she hesitated, contemplating the thoughts of those left behind, laughing or hiding—as if their lives depended on the jokes that might just be the last ones they ever heard.
