My phone has been ringing lately, displaying only the word "CALL" on the screen.

My sense of misplaced optimism dictates that I believe every phone call will bring good fortune or social invitations--a belief distinctly at odds with my reality, which is more prone to late-night phone calls from Uncle Todd, who wishes to complain bitterly about mean things my father did to him during their childhood.

At any rate, the first time I got this "CALL," I answered politely, and was rewarded with the unmistakable sound of a receiver being replaced. Huh.

The second time, I answered, and heard a repetitive beeping sound. Huh.

The third time, I thought, "What if Uncle Todd is calling from a blocked number, to see if I'll answer?" so I didn't answer. Whoever it was didn't leave a message.

Today, I answered the "CALL" to hear a definitely telemarketing-tinged vacuum of sound, followed by a dull click of the call being connected. Then, a male voice spoke, asking for me. He sounded young, and had a polite and eager telemarketer's tone. He said, "Hi, may I speak to ... Vee-OH-let?" which irritated me because it cemented his telemarketarianism, and because my name is the same as a relatively common and simple-to-pronounce color, yet he managed to mangle it.

An edge crept into my voice as I replied, "Yes, it's VIOLET. This is she."

It took me a second to realize that what came next was a brief burst of very quiet, aspirated laughter on the other end of the phone before the line went dead.

Let me tell you, if you'd like to really unsettle someone, this is exactly what to do. It took me only a moment to feel the paranoia start to creep in: Was that laughter sinister? Did I imagine it? Was it someone I know?

For a period of two years, when I lived in San Francisco, I had a stalker--someone I didn't know, who would pop up from time to time and make life unpleasant. He eventually went to jail for it (and for similarly harassing four other women) but when he got out, he'd test the limits of the restraining order now and again, just to see what I'd do. (Call the police, have him hauled in again, was my modus operandi.)

When I would think of him, I'd envision the grimy underbelly of the city, dark and foul. The phone calls I've gotten recently might very well be totally innocent, but they've given me an unsettled feeling, like there's something unpleasant creeping at the edge of my vision.