00:00Marriage is supposed to be about trust, right? You promise each other honesty, loyalty, forever.
00:06You share the same bed, the same fridge, the same damn bathroom sink. You shouldn't have to worry
00:11about secrets. So when my wife started sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night to take
00:15phone calls, I told myself it was nothing. Work stress, family drama, maybe even insomnia.
00:21But deep down, I knew better. It started subtly. I'd wake up around 2 or 3 in the morning and
00:27notice the bed was empty beside me. Then I'd hear her voice, muffled, drifting from the kitchen or
00:32the hallway. At first, I thought I was dreaming. But after the third night, I realized it wasn't
00:38my imagination. She was talking to someone. I remember the first time I got bold enough to
00:42listen. I crept out of bed, bare feet silent on the carpet, and followed her voice. The house was
00:48dark except for the faint glow of the oven clock. She was standing by the back door, phone pressed
00:54to her ear, whispering in a tone I'd never heard before. I expected flirting. Maybe laughter.
01:00Maybe an argument. But what I heard froze me in place. She was crying. Not just sniffles,
01:05but choked sobs. Her free hand clawed at her chest as she whispered,
01:09Please, not again. Don't make me do this again. My blood ran cold. I should have stepped in,
01:15should have asked her what was going on. But something in me, fear, maybe, kept me rooted.
01:20I stood there in the dark, listening as my wife begged some invisible voice on the other end.
01:26After ten minutes, she hung up, wiped her eyes, and returned to bed like nothing happened.
01:31The next morning, I asked casually if she'd slept well. She smiled, kissed me, and said yes.
01:37She lied to my face. The calls kept coming, always around the same time, always whispered,
01:42sometimes angry, sometimes desperate. I started writing down the times in a notebook.
01:472.13 a.m., 3.04 a.m., 2.47 a.m. Almost every night. One night. I finally grew the courage to
01:55confront her. Who are you talking to? I asked, my voice steady though my heart pounded. She froze,
02:01toothbrush halfway to her mouth. For a split second, panic flashed across her face. Then she laughed,
02:08casual, too casual. What are you talking about? The phone calls, I pressed. You think I don't hear you?
02:13Her smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. Oh, that. It's just my sister. She's been going
02:20through some stuff, and she doesn't want to worry you. It sounded believable enough. But there was
02:24one problem. Her sister had died two years ago. I didn't call her out on it. I just nodded,
02:30heart hammering, and pretended to buy it. But inside, I was unraveling. That night, I waited until she left
02:36the room and checked her phone. Nothing. No call logs. No texts. No history at all. It was like the calls
02:43never happened. I tried to tell myself it was stress, maybe even sleep talking. But the more
02:48I listened, the worse it got. I heard her whispering things like, I did what you asked,
02:53and please, I can't do this anymore. And once, God help me, I heard her say my name.
02:58I didn't sleep for the rest of the night. The paranoia ate at me. I started staying awake on
03:03purpose, lying still in bed with my eyes closed, waiting for her to slip out. Each time she did,
03:09I followed, quiet as a shadow. One night, I finally heard more than whispers. I caught the
03:14voice on the other end. It wasn't a man. It wasn't a woman. It was static. A low, distorted
03:20crackle, punctuated by clicks and bursts, like someone trying to speak through a broken radio.
03:26But somehow she understood it. She responded, nodding, whispering, crying. I stood frozen in
03:32the hallway, goosebumps crawling up my arms, watching my wife have a conversation with nothing.
03:37When she finally hung up, I darted back to bed, pretending to sleep. My mind raced with
03:42questions I didn't want answers to. Was she insane? Was she possessed? Was I?
03:47The next day, I noticed something new. She'd started keeping a journal. A small,
03:52black notebook she carried everywhere. She wrote in it constantly, glancing over her shoulder like
03:57she expected someone to snatch it away. One afternoon, while she showered, I grabbed it.
04:02My hands shook as I flipped through the pages. It wasn't a diary. It was a log.
04:06Each entry was short, written in frantic, slanted handwriting. Times, dates, instructions. Things
04:13like, 2.13am, dig deeper. 2.47am, don't let him see. 3.04am, the basement again. I nearly dropped it
04:23when I read that last one. The basement again. We never used the basement. It was just storage,
04:28old boxes, holiday decorations, junk we didn't touch. Or so I thought. My skin prickled as I kept
04:34flipping. The last entry made my blood run cold. Soon. He'll find out soon. The pen dropped from
04:40my hand. I shoved the notebook back into place, just as the shower shut off. That night, I couldn't
04:46bring myself to follow her. I lay in bed, eyes wide open, listening to her voice drift down the hall.
04:52My mind replayed that last entry over and over. He'll find out soon. And then, at exactly 3am,
04:58I heard something else. Not her voice. Not static. A knock. From the basement door. The knocking
05:04didn't stop. It came in 3 sharp taps. Measured. Deliberate. Like someone testing the wood of the
05:10basement door. I lay frozen in bed. My chest so tight, I couldn't breathe. My wife was still on
05:16the phone in the kitchen, whispering her strange, broken conversation with the static. But whoever,
05:22whatever, was in the basement was knocking loud enough for me to hear. And the terrifying part?
05:27She didn't react. No pause in her voice. No acknowledgement. Just more whispering. As if
05:33she couldn't hear it. I wanted to believe I imagined it. That my exhausted brain was inventing horrors to
05:38match her secrets. But then it came again. 3 more knocks. I finally forced myself up. My legs felt
05:45like cement as I crept to the bedroom door. The hallway was black. Only the faint oven clock glow
05:50spilling from the kitchen. My wife's back was to me, shoulders tense. Her hair falling like a curtain
05:56as she murmured into the phone. I turned my head toward the basement door. It was slightly open.
06:01Not wide. Just a sliver. Enough for a shadow to slip through. I don't remember deciding to move.
06:07But my feet carried me forward. My heart slammed in my ears as I approached the basement door.
06:13With every step, the knocking grew softer. Until it stopped altogether. I stood there.
06:18Inches away. Staring at that thin crack of darkness. A smell drifted up. Damp. Metallic.
06:24Almost like rust. Or blood. I reached out a trembling hand. And pushed the door open.
06:29The hinges creaked like a scream. Silence. The staircase yawned before me. Steep and black.
06:35I should have turned back. I should have grabbed my wife and demanded the truth right then.
06:39But something pulled me down those stairs. Some part of me needed to know. I descended one step
06:44at a time. The wooden boards groaning under my weight. The smell grew stronger. Burning the back
06:50of my throat. When I reached the bottom, I found the pole string for the light and gave it a yank.
06:55A dim bulb flickered to life. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Boxes stacked against
07:00the walls. Old furniture under sheets. Cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. I almost laughed in
07:06relief. Maybe it really was just my imagination. But then I saw the corner. The boxes there were newer,
07:12stacked neatly in a way that didn't match the dusty chaos of the rest.
07:15I stepped closer, squinting. One was labeled in my wife's handwriting. Do not open. My stomach
07:21twisted. I reached for the box. My hands shook as I tore away the tape and pried open the flaps.
07:27Inside were stacks of notebooks, like the one I'd seen her writing in. I grabbed one and flipped it
07:33open. Pages and pages of the same frantic notes. Times. Instructions. Phrases that didn't make sense.
07:393.11am. Feed it. 2.26am. The blood is necessary. Don't forget his eyes. I dropped the book like it
07:48burned me. My hands scrambled through the box, flipping open notebooks, each more disturbing than
07:53the last. Some were filled with drawings. Crude sketches of faces, all scratched out with heavy
07:59black ink. Others had lists of names. Names I recognized. Neighbors. Coworkers. Even a couple of
08:06my friends. My breath hitched when I flipped to the back of one notebook and saw my own name.
08:11Underlined three times. Behind me, a floorboard creaked. I spun around, my pulse exploding.
08:17My wife stood at the bottom of the stairs, her phone dangling in one hand. Her expression,
08:22unreadable. What are you doing down here? She whispered. Her voice wasn't angry. It wasn't scared.
08:28It was tired. I. I heard something. I stammered. The knocking. What the hell is this?
08:33I gestured wildly to the box, the notebooks spilling across the floor.
08:38What are you hiding from me? She stared at me for a long, suffocating moment.
08:42Then she sighed, setting the phone on a shelf. I was hoping you wouldn't find out,
08:47she said softly. My skin crawled. Find out what? She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the
08:53concrete. The dim bulb flickered overhead, making her face twitch between shadow and light.
08:58They told me not to let you know, she murmured. They said it would ruin everything.
09:02They? My voice cracked. Who the hell is they? Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite
09:08a smile. You've already heard them. The static. Before I could respond, the phone lit up on the
09:14shelf, vibrating against the wood. The screen was blank. No number. No name. Just glowing white.
09:20My wife's eyes flicked to it. It's time. The vibration stopped. The silence that followed was
09:25heavier than anything I'd ever felt. And then, from the shadows in the far corner, came a sound that
09:31turned my stomach inside out. Breathing. Slow. Wet. Animal-like breaths. I stumbled back,
09:37my legs hitting a box. What the fuck? They've been waiting, she whispered, her eyes shining in
09:43the dim light. And you, you were always part of it. Before I could bolt, the bulb overhead popped,
09:49plunging us into blackness. The breathing grew louder. Closer. Something brushed my arm. Cold.
09:55Slimy. Wrong. I screamed, shoving past her, scrambling up the stairs two at a time.
10:01My wife didn't follow. She just watched. I'll never forget the look on her face.
10:06Calm. Resigned. Like she'd been expecting this. I slammed the basement door shut,
10:11locking it with shaking hands. For a long time, I just stood there, chest heaving,
10:16ears straining. The house was silent again. Too silent. When I finally dared to look,
10:21her phone was lying on the kitchen table. Still glowing. Still blank. But this time,
10:27words appeared across the screen. He knows. I didn't sleep that night. Didn't sleep for the
10:32next several nights. My wife acted normal during the day, like nothing happened. Cooking breakfast,
10:37asking about work, laughing at TV shows. But at night, the phone calls continued.
10:42And the basement door? Sometimes I found it unlocked, even though I checked it a dozen times.
10:47I started staying at a motel, telling her I had late shifts. She didn't argue. Didn't even ask
10:53questions. Just kissed me on the cheek and said, be careful. But the thing is, I can't stay away
10:59forever. This is my house. My life. And I know that whatever is down there isn't going to stay
11:04contained. Two nights ago, I drove by the house, just to check. Every light was on. Through the window,
11:10I saw her in the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, nodding, whispering. And in the reflection of the
11:16glass, just behind her, I saw something else. A tall, faceless figure, its hand resting gently
11:22on her shoulder. She didn't flinch. She didn't notice. She just kept talking. I don't know how
11:28much longer I have. Every time I close my eyes, I hear that static in my dreams. Every time I check
11:34my own phone, I half expect to see a blank screen with a message waiting. Maybe I'll run. Maybe I'll
11:39burn the house down. Maybe I'll finally answer the call myself. But one thing is certain. My wife
11:45isn't my wife anymore. And the basement isn't empty. It's waiting.
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