The Red Thread

Evan’s phone rang at 2:14 a.m.—a thin, metallic trill that sliced through the darkness of his apartment.
Unknown number.

He let it ring.
Then it rang again.
And again.

On the fourth call, he answered.

“Did you enjoy the spaghetti?” a calm voice asked. “You left the pan on the stove.”

Evan sat up. He had eaten spaghetti, and he had forgotten to wash the pan. “Who is this?”

The voice ignored him. “You always forget. You’ve been doing that since you were seven.”

Goosebumps prickled his arms. “What do you mean, since I was seven?”

Silence. Then:
“I’ve been with you a long time.”

The call ended.

---

Day 2

Evan tried to dismiss it. A prank. A wrong number.

But the next night, the phone rang at exactly the same time.

“You shouldn’t worry about that coworker, by the way. She doesn’t hate you. She just thinks you lie too much.”

Evan stiffened. His coworker had said exactly that—to his face—earlier that day.

“How do you know that?”

“I know everything,” the voice said lightly. “Even the things you hide from yourself.”

“What things?”

The voice chuckled softly. “You’ll remember soon.”

---

Day 3

Evan didn’t sleep. He waited for the call.

2:14 a.m.

“Did you enjoy your walk today?” the voice crooned. “You always slow down when you pass that alley. Old habits.”

Evan felt cold. He had slowed—without knowing why.

“What happened in that alley?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You’re lying.”

“I DON’T REMEMBER!” he snapped.

Another soft laugh.
“You will.”

---

Day 4

This time, the phone didn’t ring.

Evan stared at it, heart punching in his chest.

Where was the voice?

Why did he miss it?

He realized, with nauseating clarity, he wanted the call. He needed answers. He needed someone to tell him what was happening inside his own mind.

At 2:17 a.m., he caved. He dialed the unknown number.

It rang once.

“Good,” the voice answered. “See? You always come back.”

“What do you want from me?” Evan whispered.

“To help you remember,” the voice said. “Check under your bed.”

Evan froze.
“No.”

The voice sighed. “Still scared of yourself, I see.”

The call ended.

After thirty minutes of sweating, shaking hesitation, he finally got off the bed and pulled up the edge of the mattress.

A small, rusted metal box sat underneath.

He didn’t remember owning a box. He didn’t remember placing anything there.

His hands trembled as he opened it.

Inside were newspaper clippings.
About the disappearance of a boy.
Twenty years ago.

A school photo was taped to the top.

A boy with a bowl cut.
A shy smile.
And Evan’s eyes.

It was his picture.

He dropped the box as if it burned him.

His phone rang.

He answered with a shaking breath.

“You buried the memory, Evan. Not the boy. You.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did. You know you did.”

He wanted to scream. He wanted to deny it.
But instead he whispered: “Why are you doing this to me?”

A long pause.
Then the voice said:

“Because I’m the part of you that didn’t forget.”

The call disconnected.

And the phone went dead.