It was a different time back then. Before dating apps, before social media, before everything got digitized and impersonal, there was something called “Phone Pal.” It was a strange but charming trend—strangers connecting through a phone line, either randomly through switchboards or numbers scribbled on wrappers, soda bottles, or bathroom walls. It was innocent at first, just people talking, imagining each other’s faces through voices, slowly growing trust, and sometimes even falling in love—or at least thinking they were.
This story happened decades ago, during a time when we were young, curious, and somewhat innocent. I was part of a group of three friends—me, Eric, and Carlo. We were good guys, not the kind who partied hard or got into trouble. We belonged to a church-based youth group and took our faith seriously, but like many young men, we were still intrigued by the mysteries of the world, by girls, by the unknown.
One day, Eric told us he had been talking to a girl through this “phone pal” thing. He wouldn’t tell us much, just that she was sweet, soft-spoken, and worked at a famous fast food chain in one of the biggest malls in the city. He asked if we could come with him one night to meet her—just in case. He laughed it off, but I could tell something in him wanted company, a buffer between fantasy and reality. We agreed.
That evening, we drove to the mall just before closing. The place was starting to empty, the bright fluorescent lights reflecting off the polished tiles like a final curtain call. Then she appeared. She looked… normal. Medium build, long black hair, slightly pale. She smiled at Eric and greeted us, her voice matching what he had described. She sat in front beside Eric, and we sat quietly in the back.
We didn’t pay too much attention to her face—maybe we were being polite, or maybe something about her kept us from looking too closely. Either way, Eric was clearly smitten. He offered to drive her home, and along the way, she suggested we stop somewhere quiet to eat and drink. We ended up at a dark, tucked-away spot—a usual hangout for folks who didn’t want too many eyes around. We grabbed some beer, and Eric and the girl sat in the front seat while Carlo and I stayed in the back, chatting quietly and letting them be.
There was something off about her. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but every time I glanced her way, her face seemed… different. Like the angles didn’t match. Sometimes her eyes looked too big, sometimes too small. I thought maybe it was the alcohol or the shadows playing tricks on me. I ignored it.
After some time, she said she wanted to go home. We agreed. She gave directions that led us toward a well-known university on the outskirts of the city. But the deeper we went, the more undeveloped everything became. Streetlights became fewer. Then none. Just tall grasses, half-paved roads, and darkness.
Eventually, we stopped in front of what looked like the remains of a fence. She told us to follow her on foot. We hesitated. “Come on,” she said, smiling. “It’s just back here.”
We followed, single file through the knee-high grass, guided only by her small flashlight. Finally, we saw it—an old wooden house, weathered and gray, leaning slightly like it was tired of standing. The front steps creaked as we walked up.
Inside, it was dim. Only candles lit the room. We were greeted by her sister—older, slimmer, and oddly elegant in a haunting way. I remember looking around and wondering why they had no electricity. “The lines haven’t reached here yet,” the girl said casually.
We sat. They offered us more beer. We declined. Then, out of nowhere, the sisters went to the bedroom and came out wearing more revealing clothes. Not quite indecent—but odd, given the setting. Their demeanor changed. The elder sister began talking about their “adventures,” sexual in nature, unfiltered and inappropriate. They asked about ours.
We froze. We weren’t used to that kind of talk. We were part of a religious organization. We weren’t perfect, but we didn’t make a habit of throwing ourselves into temptation. Something about this felt… wrong. Sinister.
Eric cleared his throat. “We should go. It’s late.”
The sisters insisted we stay. “Relax,” the younger one said. “No one comes out here. It’s just us.”
That sentence chilled me.
We stood up, politely declined, and promised to visit again tomorrow. They watched us leave, still smiling, still… off. As we walked back through the grass, I felt eyes on us. Not just theirs—something else. Watching. Waiting.
Once back on the road, we saw a small store still open. Eric stopped to grab a smoke, trying to calm his nerves. Carlo asked the store owner, an older woman, “You live around here?”
“Yes,” she said, “but not many do. This place is still mostly undeveloped.”
“What about those two girls, a few blocks that way? Sisters?” I asked casually.
She paused. “Sisters?”
“Yes, they said they live just back there. In an old house.”
The woman’s face turned pale. “You must be mistaken. That house has been empty for years.”
“What?” we asked.
“There were two sisters who lived there once,” she continued, voice low. “Years ago. They were working at the mall. They used to talk to strangers on the phone. Then one night, they brought someone home. They… they were raped and murdered. Their bodies weren’t found for days. No one ever moved into that house again.”
My heart stopped. I turned to Carlo. He looked frozen. Eric dropped his cigarette.
We didn’t speak the entire way home.
The next day, against every instinct in our bodies, we returned. We needed closure. We needed to know it wasn’t real. That maybe we just drank too much, imagined it all.
But when we reached the place, we found only ruins.
The house was real—but clearly abandoned for years. No footprints, no candle wax, no furniture. Just broken wood, shattered glass, and silence. The smell of decay. A wind passed through the tall grass like a whisper warning us to leave.
We never spoke of that night again. Not for years.
But every now and then, the memory would creep back—usually in the dark, or when I passed a phone booth. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we had stayed. If we had let our guard down. Would we have disappeared like others before us?
We talked about it once, years later. Eric said, “It felt like a trap. Like something evil wanted us to stay.”
I nodded. “It was temptation. A setup. And God pulled us out before it could finish.”
Looking back, I don’t think it was just about two ghosts, or a haunted house. I think it was spiritual warfare. Evil doesn’t always come with horns and fire. Sometimes it comes in the form of a soft voice, candlelight, and an invitation to “stay a little longer.”
The devil doesn’t need much—just a moment of yes. Just enough rope to hang you.
We were lucky. Or maybe not lucky—maybe protected. Covered. I believe God used our faith, even in its youthful naivety, to pull us out before we fell too far. He reminded us, that night, how real the battle is between light and dark.
The world has moved on now. Phone pals are gone, replaced by apps and DMs. But darkness still hunts in different forms—whispers in the night, temptations dressed in desire. We must always be discerning. Always listen when something feels off.
Because sometimes, you don’t get a second chance.
And sometimes, what you think is just a date… could be a door.
