The first time Arman's phone rang at 3:17 a.m., he thought it was a mistake.
No one calls at that hour unless someone is dead.
Half asleep, he reached for his phone.
Unknown number.
He hesitated… then answered.
Silence.
Not normal silence. Not the kind where the line drops.
This was breathing.
Slow. Controlled. Watching.
"Hello?" Arman whispered.
A distorted voice replied:
"Don't turn around."
Arman froze.
His apartment was dark. Only the streetlight outside cast faint orange shadows across his room.
His heart pounded.
"I'm warning you," the voice continued. "If you turn around, she dies."
"She?" Arman's throat tightened. "Who are you talking about?"
The call ended.
The Second Night
At exactly 3:17 a.m., it rang again.
This time, Arman was awake, waiting.
"Why are you doing this?" he demanded.
The voice ignored him.
"You should visit your mother tomorrow. She looks tired."
Arman's blood ran cold.
His mother lived 200 kilometers away.
"How do you know that?" he asked.
A soft chuckle.
"I know everything."
Click.
The News
The next morning, Arman rushed to his mother's village.
She was fine.
Confused, but fine.
However, something felt wrong.
The neighbors were whispering.
A little boy stared at Arman like he had seen a ghost.
When Arman asked what was wrong, the boy said:
"You look exactly like the man who died in that house."
"What house?"
The boy pointed at an abandoned building at the end of the road.
Arman's childhood home.
The house burned down ten years ago.
The night his father died.
The Truth He Forgot
That night, at 3:17 a.m., the call came again.
"You finally remembered the house, didn't you?"
Arman felt dizzy.
"What do you want from me?"
The voice grew clearer this time.
"I want you to remember what really happened that night."
Flashes hit his mind.
Fire.
Smoke.
Screaming.
His father yelling his name.
But there was something else.
Something he had buried.
"You locked the door," the voice whispered.
Arman's hands trembled.
"No… no, I was just a child."
"You were angry," the voice continued. "He hit your mother. You pushed him. He fell. The lantern broke."
The fire.
The locked door.
His father trapped inside.
Arman dropped the phone.
Memories flooded back.
He had locked the door from outside.
Not to kill him.
Just to scare him.
But the flames spread too fast.
The Twist
The phone buzzed again.
Text message.
"Look behind you."
Slowly, Arman turned around.
No one.
But his laptop screen lit up.
A video started playing.
It was security footage from his apartment.
From inside his bedroom.
Recorded live.
Arman was sitting on his bed… holding the phone.
And behind him—
A shadow.
Standing in the corner.
Watching him.
Arman spun around.
Nothing.
The video kept playing.
But now…
The shadow moved closer.
In the video, not in reality.
Closer.
Closer.
Until it was standing right behind the Arman in the recording.
The figure leaned forward and whispered into the camera:
"You survived. He didn't."
The video ended.
The Final Call
3:17 a.m.
The phone rang one last time.
"You can't escape guilt," the voice said calmly.
"Who are you?!" Arman screamed.
Silence.
Then—
The voice changed.
It was no longer distorted.
It was familiar.
It was his own voice.
"This is what you deserve."
Arman felt the room spinning.
The shadow in the corner slowly began to form.
Not a ghost.
Not a demon.
A burned figure.
Skin cracked. Eyes hollow.
His father.
Standing at the door.
Locked from the outside.
Just like that night.
The temperature in the room dropped.
Arman tried to run.
But the door wouldn't open.
From the outside.
Someone had locked it.
Smoke began filling the room.
The smell of burning wood.
The walls glowing orange.
The phone fell from his hand as flames crawled up the curtains.
The last thing he heard—
Was his own voice on the phone whispering:
"Don't turn around."
Epilogue
The fire department reported an electrical short circuit.
They found Arman near the door.
Trying to escape.
The door was locked from the outside.
No sign of forced entry.
No sign of another person.
And strangely—
The fire started at exactly 3:17 a.m