Who Was Calling? – A True Story

 Sometimes the scariest stories are the ones that actually happened.

In this true account from the mid-70s, a quiet weekend alone turns into something unforgettable when a phone starts ringing… from upstairs.

What started as a lazy Saturday soon became a mystery that still sends chills decades later.
 This is Who Was Calling? — a true story you won’t forget.

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Transcript

Phones in the mid-70s were nothing like today.
 If you had one landline in the house, you were lucky. We had two.

One upstairs in the spare bedroom.
 One downstairs in what we called the “phone room” — a little nook with a coat rack, a wooden bench, and a small table where the phone sat. There was even a small window that looked outside, so you could sit and talk while keeping an eye on the world around you.

Back then, those phones had a little trick.
 Pick up one, hit #, then the last four digits of your number and then hang up, and the other phone would ring.

A kind of built-in intercom system.
 A handy feature — until the day it wasn’t.

It was a Saturday afternoon. My parents were gone to the cottage for the weekend, as usual. I stayed home — better food, better bed, and more importantly, the Yankees were on.

I had it all planned out: a bag of chips, some dip, a cold Pepsi.
 Settled into the big chair in the living room, feet up, relaxed.

This was my time. Just me, the ballgame, and my boys on the field — hoping they’d destroy the other team again like they had before.

I was comfortable. Content. Everything exactly the way I wanted it.

And that’s when it happened.

The phone rang.

That sharp, sudden ring cut through the room, pulling me out of my groove.

I sighed, got up, and answered.

“Hello? …Hello? …Hello?”

Nothing.

Wrong number, I figured, and went back to the TV.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, it rang again.

I got up, grabbed the receiver.

“Hello? …Hello? …Hello? …Hello?”

Still nothing.

This time, I set the receiver down a little harder than I probably should have.

Five minutes later — it rang again.
 Now I was mad.
 I picked it up and shouted:

“HELLO! This is NOT funny! …HELLO?”

Silence.

“HELLO! You’re not funny — and if you keep it up, I’m calling the phone company!”

I slammed it down — hard enough I nearly broke the thing.

Two minutes later, it rang again.
 I picked it up, said nothing, just held it to my ear.

And that’s when I heard it.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound only the intercom made.
 Someone was calling… from the upstairs phone.

The house was old. Creaky. Spooky even on a good day.
 And now, it felt like the air got heavy.

I stood frozen in the phone room, staring at the door that led upstairs. My mind racing.

Somebody had broken into the house — that had to be it.
 I needed something — anything — to defend myself.

My dad’s guns were all in the room with the phone.
 I thought about grabbing a kitchen knife, but what good would that do?

I’ll admit it — I was scared. Probably the most scared I’d ever been.
 But I couldn’t just sit there.

My eyes darted to the bullwhip hanging on the wall.
 Maybe I could use that.

I’m not even sure if I grabbed anything in the end.
 I just know that as I finally put my hand on that doorknob, I was certain I was about to meet something — or someone — horrible.

The stairs to the spare bedroom were right across from the phone room.

Each step had its own creak.
 Slowly, painstakingly, I ascended — trying not to make a sound, so I wouldn’t alert my caller.

It was dark. No windows. Just me, my heartbeat, and the sound of the floor beneath my feet.

Halfway up, I peeked through the vent. Nothing.

At the top, the bedroom door was closed.
 I listened.
 Nothing.

I threw it open, hoping to catch whoever was there by surprise.
 But the room was empty.

There was another spare room off to the side. I checked it.
 Empty.

A small sigh of relief.

But I had to be sure.

I picked up the upstairs phone, pressed # and the last four digits and then hung up.

Sure enough, the phone downstairs rang.

I ran back down, picked it up, stayed quiet.

Click. Click. Click.

That was enough for me.

I turned off the TV, grabbed a hoodie, and pedaled straight to my best friend’s house — where I stayed until my parents came home Sunday night.

When I told them what happened, they laughed it off.
 “Overactive imagination.”

But a week later, my mother made a call that changed everything.

What I didn’t know was that she’d been getting obscene phone calls — the heavy-breathing kind — and the phone company had put a tap on our line.

And when she called to ask about that Saturday, they confirmed it.

Five calls.
 All from the upstairs phone.

So no… it wasn’t just my imagination.
 And every time I tell this story, the goosebumps come back.

Because the truth is —
 five calls came from that upstairs phone.

But the question that still haunts me isn’t how.

It’s who was calling?
And why?

What message were they trying to tell me?

 This is How Did We Get Here? — a podcast about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.
I’m Jim Richmond. And I’m still here for a reason.
Maybe you are too.