Last Call

The bar had been empty for hours when Daniel heard the phone ring.

It was an old landline behind the counter, disconnected years ago.

He stared at it.

Ring.

He almost ignored it.

Ring.

Curiosity won.

“Hello?”

For several seconds, there was nothing but static.

Then a woman whispered, “Last call.”

Daniel frowned. “What?”

The voice repeated, louder this time.

“Last call.”

The line went dead.

A moment later, the front door creaked open.

Daniel looked up.

Nobody stood outside.

Then the phone rang again.

Ring.

He answered with shaking hands.

This time, the voice was his own.

“Daniel,” it whispered, “you need to leave.”

He froze.

From somewhere behind him came the sound of a chair scraping slowly across the floor.

Then another.

Then another.

Daniel turned.

Every table was now occupied.

Dozens of pale figures sat silently beneath the dim bar lights, their faces hidden in shadow.

The phone remained pressed against his ear.

His own voice whispered one final sentence:

“Last call means last chance.”

The lights went out.

And when they came back on, the bar was empty.

Except for one chair.

And Daniel's name had been carved into the seat.