Eli gripped the receiver tighter, sweat beading on his forehead. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The voice on the other end sighed, heavy with sorrow. “We are what they buried here… and what you are about to free.”

Before he could reply, the ground trembled. Cracks split the tunnel walls, and from within the stone, shapes began to move—faces pressed against the rock, mouths open in silent screams.

The phone rang again, though he was already holding it. This time, the voice was his own. “Run.”

Eli dropped the receiver and sprinted, never looking back. By morning, the tunnel was sealed, filled with rubble as if nothing had ever been there. The payphone was gone.

But sometimes, in the dead of night, Eli swore he could still hear it ringing—faint and steady—from beneath his floorboards.