Call from 911
This happened when I was around ten years old. My mother had filed for divorce relatively fast, but she only worked part-time and earned very little income, so finding a place to live that was both reasonable and available at the moment once was difficult. Her acquaintance told her that she and her husband owned a little trailer home that was now unoccupied and that we could rent it for nearly nothing until we found something else.
I didn’t like the house right away. I’m sure it had something to do with my parents’ unexpected divorce and my life being flipped upside down, but it could also have been the house itself. We resided in a mountain village, and the trailer home was about a mile up a steep driveway. The house was surrounded by beautiful pine trees, but it appeared abandoned and so out of spot. My brother and I shared a room, while my mother got the bedroom with the adjoining bathroom. With wood paneling and aged fixtures, it felt like a home from the 1970s. There were other spots with unusual damage, such as holes in the wall that had been poorly filled. I immediately refused to use the hallway bathroom for whatever reason. I wouldn’t even go near it. My mother never questioned or called to ask why I was using her bathroom, but she did let me use it.
Anyway, my mother was always on the go, looking for any employment she could, so I spent a lot of time alone after school and on weekends. I was alone every time I received a 911 call.
My mother used to tell us that we shouldn’t answer the door, but that we should always pick up the phone in case it was her. So when the phone rang one day, I assumed it was my mother because no one else had our phone number. On the other end of the line was a woman who sounded quite worried.
“This is 911, and I’m returning your call. The woman said, “We received your call, but we got disconnected.”
I got a horrible feeling right away. When I told her I hadn’t phoned 911, she questioned whether anybody else in the house had. I claimed to be alone at home, but I became increasingly concerned that I wasn’t. She said she’d send cops to our house just to make sure everything was well.
I was scared to remain inside the house at that time, so I sat outside and waited for the cops, who arrived in about 15–20 minutes. I responded no to the officer when he asked if I had phoned 911, but they claimed I had. The cop just chuckled and said, “This type of thing happens frequently.” He walked away after a quick peek around the house’s exterior.
I made an effort to persuade myself that the officer was correct. It was merely a jumbled phone call, and whoever did call got the assistance they needed.
The same thing happened about a month later. I received another call from 911, this time stating that they had received a call from my contact number. I told them once more that it had to be a misunderstanding. The woman on the other end of the line lectured me, telling me that 911 was not a toy and that I was blocking people from obtaining help. This time, she didn’t send out any cops. I was frightened that someone was in the home again, so I double-checked that all the doors were still secured.
I’m not sure why, but I always kept the restroom door in the hallway shut. Perhaps it was the strange sense I received from it. I had a feeling someone was in that bathroom while I was going around the house. I was frightened. I felt compelled to open the door to check, perhaps to prove myself incorrect, but I was too terrified. So I sat in the living room, keeping an eye on that door. It was so silent in the home that I swear I heard tiny little noises coming from within, like a scrambling noise, after several minutes. When my mother returned home, I requested her to inspect the restroom, and she did so swiftly. She forced me to come look and realize that it was vacant, and I was allowing my mind to run away with me.
Over the next few months, I received three more 911 calls, all of which occurred when I was alone at home. The fourth time, the dispatcher informed me that what I was doing could result in criminal charges, and that they would notify my parents. I sobbed and was afraid as I hung up the phone. I had the impression that someone was back in the house, but I knew that if I phoned 911, they wouldn’t turn up. It wasn’t me, but I felt like the girl who cried wolf. It was as if someone were pulling a cruel and twisted prank on me. I sat and listened to what sounded like someone scraping their fingers all across the restroom door.
My mother was correct, and I was probably just letting my thoughts run away with me. I decided to attempt to leave the restroom door open so I wouldn’t be as alarmed by the possibility of someone being inside. After that, I received my fifth 911 call. The restroom door banged shut this time after I hung up the phone with the operator.
I bolted. I dashed all the way down our steep driveway and sought a spot to wait until my mother arrived. She was angry with me for leaving the house when she arrived, but she realized how unhappy I was. I believe she mistook my behavior for an outburst caused by the stress of the divorce. I didn’t want to be alone in the house again, so we worked up a plan for me to stay longer at school or go to a friend’s place nearby until she got off work. Soon after, we received notice from my mother’s friend that we needed to vacate the premises because her mother needed a place to reside. I was overjoyed at the prospect of leaving. I advised my mother to inform her friend that something was wrong with the house, but she thought it was a terrible way to repay someone’s kindness.
Over the next couple of years, I travelled about a lot and tried to forget about that place. It wasn’t until I was older that I gave it serious consideration. When I saw an accident and had to phone 911, all of my fears and paranoia returned. I decided to conduct some research, which I now regret having done. A woman was murdered in that house a few years before we moved there in some sort of “family conflict.” But it took days for her to be discovered, locked up in the bathroom.
