The First Call

The streets of Seoul at night were a strange mixture of neon brilliance and unsettling quiet. Ji-Hoon walked home, his collar turned up against the chill of the late autumn air, his steps echoing on the pavement. The city that had once felt full of life now seemed like a shadow of itself, as though even the buildings were holding their breath.

It was nearly 1 AM. His shift at the newspaper had ended hours ago, but the deadline for his latest article loomed like a dark cloud. The story wasn’t coming together the way it should have, and his editor was growing impatient. Ji-Hoon needed a break, but the more he tried to think, the more elusive the answer became.

As he walked down a narrow side street, something caught his eye. At the end of the alley stood an old payphone. Its flickering neon sign buzzed erratically, casting an eerie, almost hypnotic glow. It was a relic from a bygone era, long abandoned, no longer functional.

Still, the phone rang.

Ji-Hoon stopped, a weird chill creeping up his spine. In a city this crowded, there was no reason for a payphone to be ringing at this hour. He glanced up and down the street, but it was empty. No one else around. Just him and the phone.

Curiosity overcame him. As a journalist, it was in his nature to investigate things, especially things that seemed out of place. Maybe someone was playing a prank, or maybe it was some kind of strange, forgotten emergency. But he couldn’t ignore it. It was too weird, too mysterious.

He took a deep breath, crossed the street, and approached the phone. The ringing continued, insistent, as if calling him specifically.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he lifted the receiver.

"Yeoboseyo?" he said, his voice breaking the silence of the alley.

For a long moment, there was nothing but static on the other end. Ji-Hoon felt his heart race, unsure of what to make of it. He opened his mouth to speak again, but then came the voice.

"You are not who you think you are."

The words echoed in his mind, as if they were inside his head. Ji-Hoon froze, his hand gripping the receiver tightly, as though he could stop his heart from pounding. The voice was faint, barely a whisper, but it felt as though it came from inside the alley—not from the phone.

“What the hell is this?” Ji-Hoon muttered under his breath. “Who is this?”

But the only response was more static. The hairs on his neck stood on end as he heard the faintest of breaths, like someone was standing right behind him.

“Hello?” he said again, his voice wavering.

No reply. Just silence.

Ji-Hoon quickly slammed the receiver down, his pulse pounding in his ears. He turned around and scanned the street. It was still empty. Just the hum of distant traffic, the rustling of a garbage can as a stray cat rummaged through it. But everything else was quiet. Too quiet.

He stepped back, wiping his sweaty palms on his jacket. It was a prank, he told himself. Probably some drunk idiot messing with him. Still, something gnawed at him as he walked away.

It wasn’t until he was back in his apartment that Ji-Hoon began to relax, convincing himself it was nothing. A mistake, a joke, an empty moment in a city full of distractions. He tossed his jacket on the couch and began making tea, trying to shake off the weird feeling.

He had just turned the kettle on when he heard it.

Beep.

The sound of his answering machine light blinking.

He froze, the kettle forgotten. The answering machine was one of the old models—it didn’t even have a caller ID.

With a sinking feeling, he stepped toward the machine. Pressing play, his hand trembling as he waited.

The machine clicked on.

Static.

Then, the voice from the phone.

"You are not who you think you are."

The same whisper. The same words.

Ji-Hoon felt his stomach drop. He checked the machine, his hands shaking as he pressed rewind. But there was no mistake. The voice was the same, chilling and almost familiar.

His phone hadn’t rung. The machine was the only one that had captured the message.

The more he thought about it, the worse it got. His phone was unlisted. Only a handful of people had the number—family, a couple of close friends, and the newspaper office. No one else should have had access to it. So how had someone gotten it?

Ji-Hoon quickly reached for his phone, intending to call the office. But before his finger could press the first digit, the phone rang again.

The screen flashed—no caller ID.

For a moment, he simply stared at it, his mind blank, unable to decide whether to pick up or hang up. His heart raced. There was no way he was going to answer it again. Not after that strange message.

It rang again.

And then again.

Ji-Hoon looked at the clock. 1:13 AM.

With a deep breath, he forced himself to stand up and walk toward the phone. As his hand reached for it, a thought crossed his mind:

Some calls should never be answered.

"Some calls should never be answered."

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