You rang

"I can see you," said a whispery voice on the phone. It was dark outside already, all my windows closed. A soft light was emanating from the candles I had set up all over the house in lue of the blackout. I was surprised the phone still worked.
“Who is this?”
“Don’t you know me, you talked to me last night,” the voice said. It sounded like a woman; she had a note of urgency in her voice.
I thought back, I had been home last night as usual. I'd been reading in fact, a strange story about a lost girl. She had been sucked into the book she had been reading, pulled in by vines. I’d even dreamed about her last night. But I hadn’t talked to anyone per se. Just said goodbye to my friends at school after the football game. I hadn’t met anyone new; and no one sounded like this woman. Her voice had a small bit of an accent, implacable to my ears.
“I’m sorry I don’t know who you are.”
“You have to, I can see you now even as I speak to you.”
“Impossible, all my windows and doors are closed and locked.”
“But I can,” she insisted, “In my mind, your hairs wet from a shower perhaps, you’re barefooted wearing a sweater and gray sweatpants.”
“Go on,” I whispered. It was true. I moved up the stairs, entered the bathroom checked it and locked the door.
Feeling encouraged she went on “Your hair, its black, your nail polish it’s chipped, colored gold. You have green eyes.”
This worried me. There was no way this woman could see me, not now. I was about ready to hang up and call the police when she spoke again.
“Please, I think you can help me,” she was pleading, “I haven’t seen anyone from my world in so long, so very long.”
“What’s your name?” I dared to ask. I feared the answer because everything I’d been taught went against it. Stories do not come to life.
“Rose Black.”
I dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a loud smack making me jump all the more. Rose Black had been the name of the girl in the story last night. The lost one. I heard her voice coming from the receiver wanting to know if I was still there. Slowly I picked it up feeling very cold.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s not meant to be funny!” she insisted. This couldn’t be real though. One of my friends had to be playing a joke on me. Yes that was it. A joke, a mean nasty joke. I let myself out of the bathroom and went to my room. There on the nightstand was the book. I opened it looked through it. It was told by the girl’s grandpa, the one she had stolen the book from. He was a wizard but he had never told her.
Scared to the core I said, “Start at your beginning.”