The last Call at Midnight

 I work the night shift at a 24-hour gas station on the edge of Durban. 

It’s dead. 12am to 6am. Just me, the humming fridge, and the CCTV cameras.

My manager gave me one rule on my first day: 

"If the old payphone outside rings after midnight, don’t answer it."

I laughed. "What payphone? We don’t even have coins anymore."

He didn’t laugh back.

Night 1

11:59 PM. I was wiping the counter when it happened.

RING. RING.

Not my phone. The old red payphone bolted to the wall outside. The one covered in dust and cobwebs. 

I hadn’t even noticed it before.

I looked at the CCTV. No one was outside. Just empty road and rain.

It rang 3 times and stopped. 

My hands were shaking. I told myself it was a prank.

Night 3

12:00 AM on the dot.

RING. RING.

This time I picked up the CCTV audio.

A woman’s voice. Soft. Tired.

"Hello? Is this Shell on Marine Drive? ... Can you tell my husband I’m on my way home? Tell him I’m sorry I’m late."

I froze. "Ma’am, there’s no one here. Who is this?"

Silence. Then a whisper: "The car... it’s dark... he’s waiting..."

Click.

Dial tone. 

I ran outside. No one. Just the phone swinging on its cord.

Night 5

I googled it. "Shell Marine Drive Durban accident".

2008. A woman crashed her car 2km from this station at 12:07 AM. Drunk driver hit her. 

She died on the phone with her husband. Her last words were: "Tell him I’m sorry I’m late."

The station closed for 2 years after that. Then my company bought it. 

The payphone was supposed to be removed. It never was.

Night 7 - Tonight

11:58 PM. I should’ve called in sick.

11:59... 

The lights flickered. 

12:00.

RING. RING.

My heart was in my throat. I stared at it. 

Rule #1: Don’t answer.

It rang again. 

Then a text came to my work phone. From an unknown number:

"Please. He thinks I abandoned him. Just tell him."

I’m not a brave person. But I’m also not a monster.

I picked up.

"Hello?" My voice cracked.

A sob. Then the same woman’s voice. But closer now. Like she was standing next to me.

"Thank you... tell David... I didn’t mean to... the lights went out... I’m so cold..."

Behind me, the fridge stopped humming. 

The station went completely silent.

"Ma’am, I’ll tell him. What’s your name?"

"Lindiwe."

The back door creaked open. No wind. No footsteps.

On the CCTV, the door was still closed.

"Lindiwe, help is coming. Just stay on the line."

She laughed. But it wasn’t a happy laugh. It was wet. Burdened.

"It’s too late for me... but not for you... he’s here for you now."

Click.

The line went dead. And the payphone outside started ringing again.

But I was still holding the receiver in my hand.

I turned around slowly.

Standing by aisle 3 was a man. Wet. In a 2008 taxi driver uniform. 

His neck was bent wrong. And he was holding a phone to his ear.

He looked right at the camera. Right at me.

And he smiled.

The next morning they found me under the counter. Shaking.

The payphone was gone. Ripped out of the wall.

The police asked what happened. I told them about Lindiwe.

They nodded and said: "Yeah. She calls every night at midnight. Looking for her husband."

I quit that day. 

But sometimes, at exactly 12:00 AM, my personal phone rings.

Unknown number.

And if I answer... I hear her.

"Hello? Is this Shell on Marine Drive? ... Can you tell my husband I’m on my way home?"

I don’t answer anymore.

But one day I will. 

Because I’m starting to think... 

She’s not calling for her husband.

She’s calling for the next person to take the shift.