The Tuesday 2:47 Call

At 2:47 a.m., every Tuesday, my console lights up with a call that doesn’t exist.

I’m a 911 dispatcher. Twelve years on graveyard shift. I know the system inside and out.

When a call comes in without an address, without a number, without a log entry—it shouldn’t be possible.

But it rings anyway. The first time, it was a boy whispering through heavy static. He said a man in

a smiling mask was in his house. Said his mom was screaming. Said he was hiding

in a closet. He couldn’t tell me where he was. Just, “the old house at

the end of the road.” Police found the house empty. Abandoned. Dust undisturbed

for decades. The call came again the next week. Same time. Same boy.