An old phone in the attic rings with my own voice, warning me not to open the door.
I found the phone in a dusty box at the back of the attic, buried beneath tangled scarves and broken photo frames. At first, it looked like the kind of thing grown-ups keep only because they forgot to throw it away: black, heavy, and worn smooth by time.
But it had no cord.
No screen either. Just a cold plastic body, a round dial, and a bell hidden somewhere inside, waiting.
I had barely lifted it into my hands when it rang.
The sound filled the attic in one deep, metallic note, as if the whole house had been struck by a tiny hammer. Dust slid from the rafters. I stood perfectly still, my heart banging harder than the phone.
I should have put it back.
Instead, I brought it to my ear.
"Hello?"
For a second, there was nothing but crackling static.
Then I heard my own voice.
Not close. Not faint. Clear as if I were speaking from the other side of a wall.
"You don’t have much time. Listen carefully."
My stomach dropped. "Who is this?"
The voice breathed in sharply, like it was running.
"I’m you. From the future."
I almost laughed, but the sound got stuck in my throat. The attic seemed smaller all at once, the shadows tighter around me.
"That’s impossible," I whispered.
"I know what you’re about to do," the voice said. "Don’t ask questions. Don’t turn around. And whatever you hear, do not open the door."
I stared at the attic door at the far end of the room.
It was shut.
Still.
Then came three slow knocks from the other side.