Don't Hang Up

I’ll admit, I side-eyed the runtime at first—*three hours*? For a thriller? But *Don’t Hang Up* proves less can be *more terrifying* when every second is calibrated for maximum unease. Luke Arnold’s performance as Adam is a masterclass in controlled panic; you can hear the sweat beading as his voice tightens, his jokes turning hollow when the caller (Sibylla Budd, *unsettlingly* smooth) starts dissecting his life like a specimen. The production leans hard into the radio-station setting: the slight compression of Adam’s mic, the tinny distance of the caller’s voice, even the way music beds swell and cut abruptly. It’s immersive in a way print can’t replicate—you’re not just *hearing* the story, you’re trapped in the booth with him. That said, the brevity comes with trade-offs. The supporting cast feels sketchy—Adam’s ex, his coworkers—are more plot devices than people, and the third-act twist, while clever, hinges on a reveal that might feel *too* neat for some. But the trade is worth it for the sheer *velocity* of the thing. Stevenson’s background in comedy gives the dialogue a dark, almost *playful* edge (listen for the way Adam’s gallows humor curdles into desperation), and the lack of fat means the tension never sags. My only real gripe? The ending lands with a thud—more whimper than bang—but by then, the audiobook has already burrowed under your skin. If you love thrillers that weaponize intimacy (think *The Last Broadcast* meets *Black Mirror*’s ‘Shut Up and Dance’), this is your next late-night listen. Just maybe don’t answer any unknown calls afterward.