Iain Reid: I'm Thinking of Ending Things

When I woke up in the morning, later than usual, Jake was gone. I was under the covers. I had a headache and a dry mouth. The bottle of gin was on the floor, empty. I was wearing underwear and a tank top but had no memory of ever putting them on.

I should have told Jake about the Caller. I realize that now. It’s something I should have told him about when it started. I should have told someone . But I didn’t. I didn’t think it was anything significant until it was. Now I know better.

The first time he called, it was just a wrong number. That’s all. Nothing serious. Nothing to be worried about. That call came the same night I met Jake at the pub. Wrong numbers don’t happen often, but they aren’t unheard of. The call woke me from a deep sleep. The only strange part was the Caller’s voice — a strained timbre and subdued, gradual delivery.

Right from the start, from that first week with Jake, even from the first date, I noticed odd little things about him. I don’t like that I notice these things. But I do. Even now, in the car. I notice his smell. It’s subtle. But in this enclosed space, it’s there. It’s not bad. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s just Jake’s smell. So many small details that we learn in such short periods of time. It’s been weeks, not years. There are obviously things I don’t know about him. And there are things he doesn’t know about me. Like the Caller.

The Caller was a man, I could hear that, middle-aged at least, probably older, but with a distinctly feminine voice, almost as if he was putting on a flat female intonation, or at least making his voice higher pitched, more delicate. It was unpleasantly distorted. It was a voice I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t someone I knew.

For a long time, I listened to that first message over and over, seeing if I could detect anything familiar. I couldn’t. I still can’t.

After that first call, when I explained to the Caller that it must be a wrong number, he said, “I’m sorry,” in his scratchy, effeminate voice. He waited for another beat or two and then hung up. I forgot about it after that.

The next day I saw I had two missed calls. Both were received in the middle of the night when I was asleep. I checked my missed-calls list and saw it was the same number as the wrong number from the day before. That was weird. Why would he call back? But what was really weird, and inexplicable — and this still makes me upset — was that the calls had come from my own number.

I didn’t believe it at first. I almost didn’t recognize my number. I did a double take. I thought it was an error. It had to be. But I double-checked and made sure I was looking at the missed-calls list and not something else. It was definitely the missed-calls list. There it was. My number.

It wasn’t until three or four days later that the Caller left his first voice message. That’s when it really started to get eerie. I still have that message saved. I have them all. He’s left seven. I don’t know why I’ve kept them. Maybe because I think I might tell Jake.

I reach down into my purse and take my phone out, dial.

“Who’re you calling?” asks Jake.

“Just checking my messages.”

I listen to the first saved message. It’s the first voice message the Caller left.

There’s only one question to resolve. I’m scared. I feel a little crazy. I’m not lucid. The assumptions are right. I can feel my fear growing. Now is the time for the answer. Just one question. One question to answer.

The messages aren’t obviously aggressive or threatening. Neither is the voice. I don’t think. Now I’m not so sure. They’re definitely sad. The Caller sounds sad, maybe a bit frustrated. I don’t know what his words mean. They seem nonsensical, but they also aren’t babble. And they’re always the same. Word for word.

SO THIS IS BASICALLY THEonly other interesting thing in my life right now. That I’ve been seeing Jake and that someone else, another man, has been leaving me unusual voice messages. I don’t often have secrets.

Sometimes when I’m in bed, sound asleep, I’ll wake up and see that I have a missed call, often around 3:00 a.m. He usually calls in the middle of the night. And the call always comes from my number.

Once he called when Jake and I were watching a movie in bed. When my number came up, I didn’t say anything but pretended I was chewing and handed the phone to Jake. He answered and said it was some old woman who’d called the wrong number. He seemed unconcerned. We kept watching the movie. I didn’t sleep very well that night.

Since these calls have started, I’ve had nightmares, really scary dreams, and have woken up twice in the middle of the night in a bit of a panic, feeling like someone is in my apartment. That’s never happened to me before. It’s a terrible feeling. For a second or two, it feels like someone is right in the room, standing in the corner, very close, watching me. It’s so real and frightening. I can’t move.

I’m half-asleep, but after a minute or so, I fully wake up and go to the bathroom. It’s always very quiet in my apartment. I run the water in the sink and it sounds extra loud because everything is so quiet. My heart’s pounding. I’m very sweaty, and once had to change pajamas because they were so wet. I don’t usually sweat, not like that. It’s really not a nice feeling. It’s too late to tell Jake any of this. I just feel a little more on edge than I usually am.

ONE NIGHT, WHILE I SLEPT,the Caller called twelve times. He didn’t leave a message that night. But there were twelve missed calls. All from my number.

Most people would have done something about the issue after that, but I didn’t. And what could I do? I couldn’t call the police. He’d never threatened me or said anything violent or harmful. That’s what I find so bizarre, that he doesn’t want to talk. I guess I should say he only wants to talk. He never wants to converse. Anytime I’ve tried to answer one of his calls, he just hangs up. He prefers leaving his cryptic message.

Jake isn’t paying attention. He’s driving, so I listen to the message again.

There’s only one question to resolve. I’m scared. I feel a little crazy. I’m not lucid. The assumptions are right. I can feel my fear growing. Now is the time for the answer. Just one question. One question to answer.

I’ve listened to it so many times. Over and over.

All of a sudden it had gone too far. It was the same message as it had always been, word for word, but this time there was something new at the end. The last message I got changed things. It was the worst. It was really creepy. I couldn’t sleep at all that night. I felt scared and stupid for not putting a stop to the calls sooner. I felt stupid for not telling Jake. I’m still upset about it.

There’s only one question to resolve. I’m scared. I feel a little crazy. I’m not lucid. The assumptions are right. I can feel my fear growing. Now is the time for the answer. Just one question. One question to answer.

And then…

Now I’m going to say something that will upset you: I know what you look like. I know your feet and hands and your skin. I know your head and your hair and your heart. You shouldn’t bite your nails.

I decided I definitely had to answer the next time he called. I had to tell him to stop. Even if he didn’t say anything back, I could tell him that. Maybe that would be enough.

The phone rang.

“Why are you calling me? How did you get my number? You can’t keep doing this,” I said. I was mad and scared. This didn’t feel like a random thing anymore. It didn’t feel like he’d just dialed a number off the top of his head. It wasn’t going to stop. He wasn’t going to go away, and he wanted something. What did he want from me? Why me?