Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The 911 Call from Hawthorn Lane A Woman, a Wardrobe, and a Child’s Mysterious Voice #57

Episode Date: July 17, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales#paranormalencounter #ghostvoice #truecreepycall #unsolvedmystery #911haunting  The 911 Call from Hawthorn Lane: A Woman, a Wardrobe, and a Child’s Mysterious VoiceIn this chilling tale, a late-night 911 call from a distressed woman on Hawthorn Lane takes an eerie turn. What starts as a possible break-in quickly spirals into a supernatural nightmare. The responding officers find no intruder—but a child’s voice is clearly heard on the recorded call, coming from inside a sealed wardrobe. The woman lives alone. There are no children.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, hauntedwardrobe, 911mysterycall, paranormal911, ghostchildvoice, hauntedhouse, unexplainedevents, supernaturalencounter, creepytruecall, terrifyingencounter, poltergeistreport, mysterious911case, realghoststory, hauntedobjects, chillingtrueevent

I'm a 911 operator. I work the graveyard shift, 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. You hear a lot of things in this job. A lot of pain, a lot of fear, a lot of just, weirdness. But usually, there's an explanation. Usually, it fits into a box, however grim that box might be. This one, this one doesn't fit in any box I know. And it's been eating at me for weeks.

I need to get it out. I've changed some minor details to protect privacy, but the core of it, the part that keeps me up when I finally get home, that's all here. It was a Tuesday, or technically Wednesday morning, around 2.30 a.m. The witching hour, some call it. For us, it's usually just the quiet before the post-bar closing storm, or the time when the truly desperate calls come in. The air in the dispatch center was stale, smelling faint.

of lukewarm coffee and the ozone hum of too many electronics. My screen glowed with the CAD, computer-aided dispatch, system, mostly green, all quiet. I was idly tracing the condensation ring my water bottle left on the desk, trying to stay alert. Then a call dropped into my queue. Standard ring. I clicked to answer. 9-1-1, what is the address of your emergency? standard opening. My voice was calm, practiced. The other end was quiet for a beat, just a ragged, shallow breath. Then, a woman's voice, tight and trembling. I, I don't know if this is an emergency. I think. I think I'm going crazy, not an uncommon start, especially at this hour. loneliness, paranoia, sometimes undiagnosed mental health issues.

Okay, ma'am, can you tell me what's happening? And I still need your address so I know where you are. Yes, yes, of course. It's 1427, Hawthorne Lane. Her voice was thin. My name is, well, that doesn't matter right now, does it? I typed the address into the system. Popped up clean.

Residential. Okay, 1427, Hawthorne Lane. Got it. Tell me what's going on, ma'am. There's, there's someone in my wardrobe. My internal, check-a-box system clicked. Possible home invasion. Or, again, paranoia.

Someone in your wardrobe? Are you sure? Have you seen them? No, not, not seen. Heard. She took a shake. shaky breath. It started about an hour ago. A knocking sound. From inside my bedroom wardrobe, a knocking sound. I prompted, keeping my tone even. Could it be pipes? An animal

in the walls? The usual rationalizations. No, no, it's not like that. It's deliberate. Like someone tapping to get out. I thought. I thought I was dreaming. or just hearing things. You know, old house sounds. But it kept happening. Tap, tap, tap, tap. She mimicked it, and even through the phone line, the distinct rhythm was unsettling.

Are you alone in the house, ma'am? Yes. Completely alone. My husband, he passed away last year. Her voice hitched a little on that. I made a mental note. Grief can do strange things the mind. I'm very sorry for your loss, ma'am. I said, genuinely. This knocking, did you try to

investigate it, I. I was too scared at first. I just lay in bed, pulling the covers up. But it wouldn't stop. It just kept going. So, eventually, I got up. I turned on the light. I went to the wardrobe. Her breathing was getting faster. I could hear. the faint rustle of fabric, like she was wringing her hands or clutching her clothes. And what happened when you got to the wardrobe, ma'am? The knocking stopped when I got close. And then, then I heard a voice. Her voice dropped to a whisper. A little boy's voice. It said, help me. Please, help me. I'm trapped. A chill, faint but definite, traced its way down my spine. This was, different.

A boy's voice. From inside the wardrobe, yes. He sounded so scared. He said, he said his daddy put him in there and he can't get out. Okay. This was escalating. A child's voice claiming to be trapped by his father. This had moved past Oldhouse sounds.

But still, the details were, odd. A child just appearing in a wardrobe, Ma'am, did you open the wardrobe door? Yes. As soon as he said that, I threw it open. I was expecting. I don't know what I was expecting. But there was nothing there. Her voice cracked with a mixture of fear and confusion.

Just my clothes. Shoes on the floor. Nothing. And the voice, it was gone. Silence, nothing at all. I clarified. No sign of anyone, no way a child could be hiding. No. It's not a deep wardrobe.

You'd see. I even pushed clothes aside. It was empty. I thought. I must have imagined it. The stress, being alone, and what happened then? I asked, leaning forward slightly. My other hand was hovering over the dispatch button, but I needed more.

This felt off. Not like a prank. Prank callers usually have a different energy, a smugness or a forced panic. This woman sounded genuinely terrified and bewildered. I. I was so relieved, but also so confused. I stood there for a minute, trying to catch my breath. Then I closed the wardrobe door.

She paused, and I could hear a sharp intake of air. And the second it latched, the knocking started again. Louder this time. And the little boy's voice. Please. Don't leave me in here. He'll be angry if he finds out I was talking. Her voice broke into a sob.

I don't know what to do. I'm so scared. Is it a ghost? Am I losing my mind? But it sounds so real, I took a slow breath myself. My skepticism was warring with a growing sense of unease. The sequence of events was bizarre, but her terror felt authentic. Okay, ma'am, stay on the line with me.

You're in your bedroom now. No, I ran out. I'm in the living room. I locked the bedroom door. But I can still... I can still faintly hear it. The knocking, is the wardrobe in your master bedroom? Yes, the big one.

Oh God, he's talking again. Her voice was hushed, urgent. He's saying, he's saying his dad locked him in because he was a bad boy. He said his dad gets really mad and, and hurts him sometimes. That was it. That specific detail, the abuse allegation. Whether this was a delusion, a ghost, or something else entirely, if there was even a fraction of a chance a child was in danger, we had to act. My fingers flew across the keyboard, initiating a dispatch for a welfare check, possibly a child endangerment situation. I coded it high priority. Ma'am, I'm sending officers to your location right now, okay? They're going to check this out. I need you to stay on the phone with me. They're coming.

Oh, thank God. Thank you. Relief flooded her voice, but the undercurrent of terror remained. He's, he's crying. now. The little boy. He's saying his dad told him if he made any noise, he'd be in for it. He says he's scared of the dark. I relayed the additional information to the responding units. Caller states she can hear a child's voice from a wardrobe, claiming his father locked him in and abuses him. Child is reportedly scared and crying. The dispatcher on the radio acknowledged.

Units on route. ETA six minutes. Six minutes can feel like an eternity on a call like this. I tried to keep her talking, to keep her grounded. Ma'am, what's your name? It's, it's Eleanor. Eleanor Vance. Okay, Eleanor. The officers are on their way. Are you somewhere you feel safe right now? I'm in the living room, like I said. I have the door locked. But the sound, it's like it's getting clearer, even from here. Or maybe I'm just listening harder. She paused. He's saying, Daddy says I shouldn't talk to strangers. But you're not a stranger if you're helping, are you?

My blood ran cold. The innocence of that, juxtaposed with the implied threat, it was deeply disturbing. Are you talking to him? I asked her, no, it's just, I can hear him so clearly, I don't know how he is talking to me from upstairs, it's just like he can hear me talking to you. Maybe I shouldn't have came down, maybe I should go back to the room. No, Eleanor, stay where you are.

You're helping. And we're helping too. Wait for the dispatch please. I could hear her quiet, fearful breathing. I focused on the CAD screen, watching the little car icons representing the patrol units crawl across the map towards Hawthorne Lane. Each tick of the clock in the dispatch center sounded unnaturally loud. Eleanor, I said, trying to keep my voice steady, when the officers arrive, they'll knock.

Let them know it's you, okay. Yes, yes, I will. She was quiet for a moment, then, he's saying thank you. The little boy. He says he hopes they come soon because it's hard to breathe in here, hard to breathe. My stomach clenched. That detail was chillingly specific. Ventilation in a closed wardrobe wouldn't be great. They're almost there, Eleanor. Just a couple more minutes. Unit 214, show us on scene at 1427 Hawthorne. The voice of Officer Miller crackled through my headset.

Copy that, 214. Caller is Eleanor Vance, should be expecting you. She's in the living room, reports hearing a child in a wardrobe in the master bedroom. 10 to 4, Central, I relayed this to Eleanor. There there, Eleanor. They're at your door. Oh, thank heavens. I heard a faint shuffling sound, as if she was getting up.

Then, nothing for a few seconds. I expected to hear her talking to the officers, the sound of a door opening. Instead, Officer Miller's voice came back on the radio, sounding puzzled. Central, we have a male subject at the door. advises he's the homeowner, my brow furrowed. A male subject? Ask him if Eleanor Vance is present. Or if there's any female resident, a brief pause.

Central, negative. Male states he lives here alone with his son. Says there's no Eleanor Vance here, no female resident at all. A cold dread, far deeper than before, began to spread through me. I looked at the address on my screen. 1427, Hawthorne Lane. Confirmed. Eleanor. I said into the phone. Eleanor, are you there? The officers are saying a man answered the door.

They say there's no woman there. Her voice came back, faint and laced with utter confusion. What? No, that's impossible. I'm here. This is my house. I'm... I'm looking out the living. room window. I can see the patrol car. Unit 214, I said, my voice tight, call her on the line insists she is inside the residence, states she can see your vehicle. This was getting stranger by the second. Central, the male subject is adamant. He's looking pretty confused himself, says no one else should be here. Miller sounded wary. Says his name is Arthur Collins. He's got ID.

Eleanor, I pressed, what does this man look like? The one at the door, I. I can't see him clearly from here. Just, just his shape. Her voice was trembling violently now. But this is my house. I've lived here for 20 years. My husband, Robert, we bought it together.

214, the caller's name is Eleanor Vance. She says her late husband was Robert. Does the name Vance mean anything to Mr. Collins? I waited, listening to the silence on Eleanor's end, then Miller's response. Central, Mr. Collins says he bought this house three years ago. From an estate sale. Previous owner was deceased. A Robert Vance, my heart hammered against my ribs.

Estate sale. Previous owner deceased. Robert Vance. That meant. Eleanor Vance Eleanor I said softly The officer said Mr. Collins

bought the house three years ago From the estate of a Robert Vance Eleanor, your husband's name was Robert, you said There was a long, drawn out silence on her end Just the sound of her breathing, growing more ragged, more panicked It sounded like she was hyperventilating "'Eleanor, can you hear me? Then, a choked sound. "'No, no, that can't be right.

"'Robert, he passed last year. "'Not, not three years ago. "'I—I was with him. "'Her voice was dissolving into confusion and fear. "'This is, this is my home. "'This was spiraling out of my control, out of any recognizable scenario. "'But the child, the child was still the priority. Unit 2.14, I said, pushing down my own disorientation.

Regardless of the caller's status, the initial report was a child trapped in a wardrobe, possibly abused. Mr. Collins states he has a son. You need to verify the welfare of that child. 10 to 4, central. Mr. Collins confirms he has a 7-year-old son, says his name is Leo. Says he's asleep upstairs. Ask him if you can see the boy, just to see the boy, just to to confirm he's okay, given the nature of the call we received. There was a pause. I could hear Miller talking to Collins, muffled. Then Miller came back on. Central, subject is refusing. Says the boy is fine, doesn't want him woken up. He's getting a bit agitated. Eleanor, I whispered into my phone, are you still there? A faint, broken sound, like a gasp.

I. I don't understand what's happened. 214, reiterate that due to the specifics of the call, we need to see the child. It's a welfare check. My training kicked in. We had cause. More muffled conversation than Miller's voice, sharper now. Central, subject is becoming uncooperative.

Denying access. He's raising his voice. Then, a sudden change in his tone. Hold on. Central, did you hear that? Hear what? 214. A sound. From upstairs. Faint, like a cry.

Or a thump. My gut twisted. Eleanor, I said quickly, the wardrobe you heard the knocking from, which room is it in? The, the master bedroom, she whispered. Upstairs. At the end of the hall, 214, the original report specified the master bedroom wardrobe, upstairs. Did you hear the sound from that direction? Affirmative, central. Definitely from upstairs. Subject is now trying to block the doorway.

Partner is moving to restrain. The line with Eleanor was still open. I could hear her ragged, panicked gasps. It was like listening to someone drowning. Then, chaos erupted on the radio. Shouting. Sir, step aside. Police. Don't resist. Sounds of a struggle. My own pulse was roaring in my ears. I gripped the phone tighter. Central, we're making entry to check on the child. Officer Miller's voice, strained. Subject is noncompliant. I heard footsteps pounding on the radio feed, officers moving quickly. Upstairs. Check the bedrooms. Eleanor was making soft, whimpering sounds now.

They're in my house, but they can't see me. Robert, what's happening to me, Robert? 214. Status. I demanded. Checking rooms. Master bedroom at the end of the hall. Doors closed, a pause, then, it's locked. Eleanor, was your bedroom door locked when you left it? Yes, yes, I locked it, she stammered.

214, caller states she locked that door. Okay, so. Central. We're announcing, then forcing if no response. I heard them call out, police. Occupant, open the door. Silence. Then a thud, another. The sound of a door splintering. We're in. Miller shouted. Wardrobe, it's closed. Oh God. Central, we found him. Child in the wardrobe. He's alive. conscious but terrified small boy matches the description a wave of dizzying relief washed over me so strong it almost buckled me he was real the boy was real they got to him arthur collins was now in deep deep trouble but then the other part of it crashed back in eleanor eleanor i said my voice horse they found him

The little boy, Leo. He's safe. They have him. Her response was a broken whisper, almost inaudible. Leo, his name is Leo. He was, he was real. Yes, Eleanor, he was real. But, the officers, they still don't see you. Mr. Collins says you're not there. Eleanor, where are you in the house right now? A long, shaky sigh. I'm. I was in the law. living room. By the window. But, when they came in, they walked right past me. Right through where I was standing. Her voice was filled with a dawning, unutterable horror. They didn't, they didn't see me. He didn't see me. Eleanor, I didn't know what to say. What could I possibly say?

The wardrobe, the master bedroom, that's where I heard him so clearly. I spent so much time in that room, after Robert, her voice trailed off. Then, a new note of terror, colder than before. If, if Mr. Collins bought the house three years ago, from Robert's estate, and Robert died, then, when did I die? The question hung in the air, chilling me to the bone. I had no answer. My dispatcher's manual had no protocol for this. I. I don't feel anything, she whispered, her voice sounding distant now, afraid. It's, it's like I'm fading. I can't.

I can't see the room clearly anymore. It's, cold, Eleanor. Eleanor, stay with me. Can you tell me anything else? Can you describe what you see around you now? My professional instincts were useless, grasping at straws. Her voice was barely a breath. Just, dark, and wind,

so much whined. Then, a click. The line went dead. Eleanor. I yelled into the receiver. Eleanor, static. My hand was shaking as I hit the redial button for the incoming number. It rang. Once. Twice. Then it connected. But there was no voice. Just a sound. A faint, hollow, whistling sound, like wind blowing through a crows. cracked window pain or across the mouth of an empty bottle. It was a sound I'd heard before, sometimes on bad connections, but this was different. This felt empty. Desolate. I listened for a full minute, my heart pounding, a cold sweat on my brow. The sound didn't change. Just that soft, sighing wind. I hung up. The officers were dealing with Collins, getting medics for Leo. The

immediate crisis was over. The boy was safe. That's what mattered. That's what I told myself. But Eleanor, I ran the number through our system again. It was a landline, registered to 1427, Hawthorne Lane. It had been for over 20 years. Registered to Robert and Eleanor Vance. It was probably disconnected after the estate sale, but somehow, somehow she had called from it. Or through it. The report I filed was, complex. I focused on the tangible, the call, the child endangerment, the successful rescue. I omitted the parts about Eleanor's apparent non-existence, her dawning realization. Who would believe it? They'd send me for psyche vow. Maybe I should go. But I know what I heard. I know how real her fear was. And I know that,

Whatever she was, she saved that little boy's life. She reached across, whatever barrier separates us from whatever she is, and she made us listen. I still work the midnight shift. The calls still come in. But now, sometimes, when there's a strange silence on the line, or a whisper I can't quite make out, I feel a different kind of chill. I think of Eleanor Vance and the hollow wind on the other end of the line the END.