My home was built on the remnants of another. The house before it, I was told, had burned to ashes in the early morning, when the sun hadn’t even been close to peeking itself into the world. The day I moved in was the best and worst of my life. Best, because I got to design the house and make it wholly mine. Worst, because the very same day I moved in, the first unnerving call came. I laid in bed with a fresh sheen of sweat over my body —somewhere deep in the middle of a dream. I was abruptly pulled from my sleep by a tumultuous noise. It shook me to my very core. The sound only growing louder and louder, begging to be heard, to be answered. With unsteady legs I rushed to find the source. Suddenly light-headed I reached out for the pale colored wall. My hand anchored me to the ground, attempting to keep my body from swaying. I gasp as my fingers vibrated. The racket caused the whole house to shiver and shake. Regaining my focus, I followed the cacophony to the door of the basement. I gulped and slowly put my hand on the doorknob, turning it. The stairs disappeared into a mist of darkness, the only solace would have been the single lightbulb in the center of the basement. Too bad there wasn’t yet a light switch for it. Down. Down. Down. The unpleasant sound only grew louder with each foot-smacking step. When my foot hit the concrete floor, I suddenly became aware of 2 things: one, I couldn’t see squat, and two, my ear drums were going to burst if the sound kept at it. Pressing my hands well into my ears, I tried to let my eyes adjust. I remembered how the basement was left a dusty mess. How the walls revealed the cotton candy like insulation, laying bare for any on lookers to see. In the middle of the barren room, I could vaguely make out the outline of only one thing: a measly work table. The clanging resonated within my heart, changing the rhythm of the beat. I rushed to the table, frantically scrabbling my hands around its surface. Searching. Searching. My hand hit some kind of shiny contraption. I felt it out. Feeling the lines and shapes and holes. An old school telephone. I never remembered buying it. I yanked the banana shaped phone off the stand. “Hello?” My voice was scratchy, still stuck in its sleepy stupor. I cleared my voice and tried again. “Hello Anne speaking.” I waited in anticipation, wishing to destroy the phone for making such an unnatural noise. The basement was quiet. Whoever called me didn’t seem to want to talk. I put the phone back in it’s holster, hanging up on the mute caller. I prayed to any god who would listen that I wouldn’t stub my toe on anything on the way back. Successfully making it up the stairs, I checked the time on an old clock hung on the wall: 3:06 AM. What an awful time to call someone. Without a second thought, I stumbled back to my bed and slept through the rest of the night. I was glad it was over. I didn’t want to hear that awful sound again. But I did hear it again. It wasn’t over. Every morning at exactly 3:06 AM, the pleading alarm hauled me from the cozy safety of my bed and brought me downstairs. Eventually I moved the phone into the lightness of my room. The shiny red paint seemed to be fresh. The circular dial was in pristine condition: the numbers not even a tiny bit faded. I plopped it down on my nightstand, just so when it called I could pick up and then put it back down immediately. That didn’t work though. The next morning I had reached for the phone only to find it missing, and thus began another confused and blinding trek downstairs. I really, really, really needed to finish installing that light. Everyday went unchanged. Fall asleep with ear plugs in (that didn’t stifle the god-awful blaring), 3:06: wake up, hurry downstairs, answer the phone, and then go back to bed. And it was always the same. No one answered my usually line of “Hello this is Anne” or my useless, exhausted threats of “If you don’t stop calling me, I’ll murder you.” Sometimes I even dreaded going to sleep, almost opting to stay over at a friend’s house. Though I never did. To me the ringing was comparable to that of a Fire House alarm: cruel and mind damaging. ~~~~ Now, the air was chilled and horribly unwelcoming to people creeping down stairs at 3 AM. The early days of December tend to bring that on. I tucked myself into my queen sized bed, pushed the ear plugs far into my head, and cuddled my body pillow. I let the death-like darkness of sleep overtake me. RING.RING.RING. Irritation rattled through me. As expected, and right on time. I crept down the stairs, yet again, not caring to stifle my loud, annoyed groan. I pulled the phone from its home, quieting the sound. Dragging my fingers down my face, I picked up the phone and inhaled a preparing breath. “Hello. This is Anne. What. Do you. Want.” I grumbled out, teeth clenched. “Hello? Please help. Help us. My daughter and my son. Pleasepleaseplease.” Shocked, I listened to the highly feminine voice on the line. Her voice quivered, clearly pumped full of hysteria. She paused to hack up half a lung. “Please send help, it’s getting so hot. My babies—they’re burning. Oh god. Oh my god.” A sob came from her end. “Please. I can’t stay awake. Save us. Send help. It’s so hot —the flames…” And with that, the line went dead. I stared at the receiver, my hands shaking uncontrollably. What was going on? I tried to dial back but it immediately declined my call. Each footstep pounded in my ears as I rushed back to my bedroom. I grabbed my laptop and forced it open, leaping onto my bed. My gut twisted in about 200 different ways. I had a feeling. A bad feeling about this. My fingers furiously typed into the searched engine: Home fires The websites that came up were tragic but not what I was looking for; I had to narrow it down. Home fires. A woman and 2 kids news Less cites popped up. A small window pulled itself into my view “We would like to use your location” I clicked a box and a dread sucking article pulled into my view. I clicked it. “On the early morning of December 2nd, 2016 a fire started in the home of Stella Benoit. Killing her and her two kids.” I scrolled farther, finding an address: 2314 Breaker Ave. My address. I scrolled down even further, horror rising through my body. “The bodies were found burnt to a crisp in the basement. The only thing that survive was an old red telephone, looking freshly polished, without a scrap of ash on it. Warning the images below are graphic…” I slammed the computer shut. The sickening realization dawned on me. The remnants of the old house were still here. They haunted the walls, and apparently the basement. A chill went up my spine. The only thing that connected me to my body was a single, almost comical, thought: my earlier death threats to the mysterious caller.