The Mystery of the Late Night Phone Call

It was ten o’clock on a Wednesday night when Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien were comfortably cozy in their bedroom, reviewing the events of the happy day that had just passed. Both parties were clad in warm nightgowns and situated snugly under the covers of their bed. This was their favorite part of the day, when whispered words passed sweetly between two best friends nestled close. 

Unexpectedly, their soft discourse was interrupted by the ringing of Tim’s cellular phone. It seemed rather late for a social call, and they both peered across the bed to where his phone lay on the bedside table. With horror, they both read the bright digital display, “Apple Wellness, 608-663-2640”. 

Tim gaped, “Someone is telephoning us from… the store…?” Becki clutched the covers and murmured “At this hour? Who…?” as Tim answered the call and firmly said “Hello?” There was no response. “Hello?” he said again, more dreadfully this time. Now the noise of typing filtered through the earpiece, as if the very keys were mocking their fear. And then silence - the call ended. Becki screamed. (She immediately pictured a masked terror holding all the little vitamins captive at their store.) Tim shot out of bed, threw on a sweater, and raced about the house in a mad search for the car keys. Becki cried, “Oh, my love, you must call the police!” Tim responded, “We… have… to… get to the store!” Becki hastily exited the bed, threw on a robe and slippers, grabbed her mace, and dashed out to join her husband in their vehicle. (She was ever so slightly triumphant that, at last, she had found a valid use for her pepper spray.) 

Tim punched, “911” into his cell phone as he sped down the drive and onto the shadowy street. A truly terrified wife quietly listened to her husband’s side of the emergency conversation, “6313 McKee Road. Fitchburg. The sign says Apple Nutrition. Yes, I’m the owner. I just received a phone call from my business. It’s ten o’clock at night, sir, and nobody should be there – it is closed. No. Only myself, my wife, and one other trustworthy individual has a key in their possession. Yes, someone called from inside the store. It should be locked! Have you sent a policeman yet? I’m going to be there in four minutes.” 

The following four minutes were spent in tense dialogue. Becki was clutching her mace and shaking with fright. “Promise me, darling, that you will not enter that dark store alone. Oh wait, please wait until the police man comes.” Tim agreed but said he wasn’t worried about her masked theif. “No burglar, my dear, would call the owner to let him know he was pilfering his products.” And there was no argument to that, for it did look to be a dreadfully strange and horrifying drama. The very air seemed heavy with untold horrors and a deep foreboding of doom. It would be safe to say that Becki had never been nearly so terrified in her whole life, and she was dreading the moment of their arrival at the store. What would they find? Who had gained entry into their securely locked business? And why?

When they pulled up, all was dark within. No signs of forced entry were evident, and no burglary was visible. The police arrived shortly behind them, and Tim unlocked the doors and entered the store behind them. Becki remained in the car, for the sake of her nerves. Twenty long minutes later, her husband and the officers vacated the store and locked the door behind them. As Mr. O’Brien slid into the driver’s seat, he hurriedly explained that nothing appeared to be stolen and that they found no traces of someone being there. The police had weakly suggested a glitch in the phone system - in an attempt to explain the unpleasant puzzle. Nobody had any idea how or why a person could have gotten into the store in the first place, nor why this person would have called the owner once entry had been gained. (Becki secretly entertained the idea that perhaps it had been a phantom – but she did not suggest it, for she knew Tim would only say “posh” and disregard the thought.) The tired couple called friends and family, hoping to shed light on the horrible situation, without luck. They arrived home and searched the house, upon Becki’s request. (She had it in her mind that perhaps an evil someone had intentionally called to guarantee their evacuation, thus enabling killers to sneak in and lay in wait for their return.) Many minutes were spent in stressful reflections, but nothing could solve the mysterious conundrum, and each second brought Becki closer and closer to despair. Tim, for his part, was no better. In the midst of her misery, Becki recognized that she had never seen his face so white, nor his voice so shaky. 

 

It was as Tim was speaking to his elder brother (whom he had, unfortunately, roused from slumber) and pacing across the kitchen floor that the second horror of the night occurred. A beep in his ear alerted him that another call was coming in. This time the display read, “Apple Café – 608-831-2640” All Becki could hear from the bedroom (before she fainted) was a shriek of fright and “Mrs. O’Brien! They are calling from the café now! It must be a crazed murderer!  

Oh, Oh! They’re typing, they’re typing…”

*to be continued*

Note: This story is entirely, terrifically true.