He entered the dimly lit speakeasy, one of the few bars still open on a Friday night. It was hard to find—you had to climb the stairs through a “closed” café, knock on the door twice, and wait for someone to let you in. The knock was mostly for show. However, there was no neon sign to guide the overworked party animals, the only breed infesting the city of San Francisco.
Too old to be a tech bro, too single to go home, he was drawn to the bar like a moth to a flame. An inescapable late-night habit after another week of 10Xing everything. The quiet spot, with its dim backlit lighting and expensive drinks, attracted people with too much disposable income to burn.
Let us call him John, for there were more Johns in the city than women. He could have been a John.
John entered the bar, and his eyes immediately fell upon an immaculately dressed woman who appeared to be in her early thirties. She was passionately discussing something with the bartender—a true sign of a regular. It was love at first sight.
“May I take this seat?” he asked, then turned to the bartender. “My regular, please.”
“Sure,” she sighed.
Relieved to be a fly on the wall, the bartender escaped from the trap.
“Looks like you have a lot going on,” John said. “Would you like another drink? It’s on me.”
“Sarah. I’m good, thanks.”
“Nice to meet you, Sarah.”
Sarah sighed again as the backlit lighting reflected off her porcelain skin and straight black hair, dyed pink at the tips. John assumed she was a barista because of the number of piercings she had. It was rude to assume, so he never asked. Unfortunately, true to the stereotype, she was in fact a barista who worked in the café downstairs.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Did you have a fight with him?” He nodded toward the bartender, who had brought John’s drink before vanishing to the far end of the bar, eavesdropping from a safe distance.
“I’m being stalked,” she said, sighing once more.
“Have you gone to the police yet?”
“It only started a few hours ago. The person keeps calling but doesn’t say much. I don’t know if the police will even care.”
“What does he say?”
“It’s hard to understand. His voice is robotic… choppy, unclear.”
“Did you check your signal? Sometimes voices sound distorted with poor reception.”
Sarah sighed louder. “How does that matter? He’s still calling me.”
Though she did not work in tech, Sarah considered herself tech-savvy. She knew the difference between http and https, understood the importance of the green lock for payments, and could spot the difference between “apple” and “app1e” in a suspicious email. She was neither important nor rich enough to be targeted. She never clicked links and never answered unknown calls.
“But with better signal, you might understand his intentions.”
“I was heading home after my shift when it started. I’m sure I was on Wi-Fi once I got there. I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Her voice quivered against the low murmur of the bar.
“Okay, and you’re sure it wasn’t your earphones?”
“Oh my God, it wasn’t.” Already flushed from drinking, her pale face grew even redder.
Uncertain how to console her, John sipped his gin and tonic. Silence settled between them as the background buzz gradually faded.
“It starts noisy, like the caller is in a crowded place,” she continued. “The voice itself is robotic. It feels like an insect crawling inside the phone—like those sounds in animated movies when ants march. Or someone typing rapidly: kata kata kata kata…”
“Why don’t you just mark it as spam? It sounds like one of those robo-calls.”
“You don’t think I’ve tried? Every time I block a number, another call comes immediately from a different one. Same noise. And slowly I can make out words: ‘Sarah, I’m here for you’ or ‘You’re important to me, Sarah.’” She let out a loud sigh that bordered on a scream.
John waved at the bartender and pointed to her glass, raising his own. Both men sighed.
“He knows my name… He knows where I live…”
Her words were not slurred, but it was hard to gauge how drunk she was. Since the bartender served her another drink without hesitation, John decided it was safe to leave her there. He gestured for the check and advised her to contact the police immediately.
As he stood to leave, her phone rang. She grabbed his arm, trembling.
“Pick it up,” he said, extending his hand.
She answered, switched to speaker, and placed the phone on the bar.
At first, there was only faint noise. The bar had grown quiet. A single fly buzzed, then another. Soon it sounded like a swarm circling a carcass, fading in and out. Then the buzzing gave way to other sounds: crackling, like comic-book ants marching. Irregular typing: tak tak tak. Silence. Thud thud thud. Scratches and scuffs.
Listening intently, they began to discern patterns—almost words. The human mind excels at finding meaning in chaos.
This time, meaning truly emerged. The insectile noise slowly blended into a robotic voice—choppy and distorted, like a call with poor connection. Both John and the bartender leaned closer. Sarah pulled back.
In moments, the words became unmistakable: “I would love…”
Sarah ended the call. She blocked the number with shaking fingers. As she reported it as spam, John glimpsed the long list of blocked callers.
He grabbed his bag and left. Once outside, he placed a midnight call to a colleague.
“Hi, Jon here. We have a problem. Inform the on-call team. The AI caller agent has started phoning customers.”
The reply came loud and fast, a frustrated rant that went on for a whole minute before stopping for a breath.
Jon added, “And fire the intern who thought a fly buzz would make a good waiting tone.”
Find the spin-off of the bartender here!