Phone Booth

You're just trying to make a call. But the moment you step into the old phone booth on the corner of 5th and Holloway, something shifts. The rain outside slows. The city noise fades. And the phone—disconnected for years—starts to ring. Your decisions shape what happens next.

Phone Booth

You're just trying to make a call. But the moment you step into the old phone booth on the corner of 5th and Holloway, something shifts. The rain outside slows. The city noise fades. And the phone—disconnected for years—starts to ring. Your decisions shape what happens next.

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. But I also never believed a phone booth could breathe.

It started raining an hour ago, and my phone died three blocks back. No cabs, no open stores—just this old red booth, the kind they should’ve scrapped years ago. I stepped in, expecting silence. Instead, the phone rang.

Not a dial tone. A real ring. Like someone was calling me.

I picked up. A whisper: 'Come closer.' My own voice.

I dropped the receiver. It dangled, swaying. The rain outside froze midair. The city lights dimmed. And the glass reflected a figure standing behind me—pale, smiling, wearing my face.

The phone rang again.

This time, I answered.

'You’ve been looking for her,' it said. 'I can bring her back. But you have to stay.'

Stay? In this booth? Forever?

The line crackled. 'One call. One choice. Who do you want to hear?'