The Last Call

It had been two years since we buried Sarah, and still, not a day passed without me thinking of her. Sometimes I caught myself reaching for my phone, wanting to text her something funny, only to remember there would never be a reply.

Grief has a strange way of folding itself into your routine. You learn to carry it, but it never really leaves.

That’s why, when my phone rang one quiet night in early spring, I didn’t think much of it at first. The number was hidden, just flashing Unknown Caller, and I almost let it go to voicemail. But something about the sound—the way it cut through the silence of the room—made me answer.

I pressed the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

For a moment, nothing. Just static. Then a voice.

“Hey… it’s me.”

My heart stopped.

It was her.

Sarah’s voice. Clear, steady, with that little breathy laugh she always had when she was nervous.

I sat frozen, gripping the phone so hard my fingers hurt. My mind raced—this was impossible. She was gone. I had stood at her grave, thrown soil onto her coffin, listened to the prayers.

But it was her.

“Sarah?” My voice cracked, barely a whisper.

There was a pause, and then: “I don’t have long.”

The room seemed to tilt. My breath came in shallow bursts. I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but all I managed was, “How is this happening?”

Her voice was calm, almost sad. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is you need to stop blaming yourself.”

Tears blurred my eyes instantly. She knew. She always knew. For two years I’d carried the weight of that night—the thought that if I had answered her last text, or driven her home instead of letting her walk, things might have been different.

My throat tightened. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—”

“No.” Her voice cut sharp, the way it used to when she wouldn’t let me argue. “You couldn’t have saved me. You need to let me go.”

The words pierced me like glass. Because she was right. I hadn’t let her go. I still clung to the what-ifs, the regrets.

I pressed my hand over my face, choking back sobs. “I don’t know how.”

“You will.”

And then her tone changed, low and urgent. “But listen—don’t go to the house.”

My breath caught. “What house?”

Static swelled in the line. For a moment I thought the call had dropped, but then she whispered: “You’ll know it when you see it. Promise me—don’t go inside.”

Before I could speak, the line went dead.

I sat there staring at my phone, my whole body trembling. The call log just read Unknown Number. When I tried to call back, it wouldn’t connect.

That night, I barely slept. Her words spun in my head: Don’t go to the house.

The next morning, I tried to tell myself it had been a dream. Maybe my mind, tired of grief, had conjured her voice. But when I drove to work later, my stomach dropped.

On the edge of town, just off the road I’d driven hundreds of times, stood a house I had never noticed before.

Old. White paint peeling. Windows dark, some cracked.

And yet the moment I saw it, I knew. This was the house.

I pulled over, my pulse hammering.

For a long moment, I sat in the car staring at it. The world around me seemed strangely quiet, the air heavy, like even the birds had gone still.

Then, against every instinct, I stepped out.

Gravel crunched under my shoes as I walked toward the rotting fence. The closer I got, the colder the air felt, a deep chill that sank into my bones.

I was halfway up the path when my phone rang.

Unknown Caller.

My hands shook as I answered.

“Did you go?” Sarah’s voice burst through, sharp, panicked.

“I… I’m here,” I admitted, my breath fogging in the sudden cold.

Her voice cracked, desperate now. “Leave! I told you not to go!”

A heavy thud echoed from inside the house. Like something—or someone—had moved.

I froze. “Sarah, what’s inside?”

Static roared in the line, and then her voice, breaking, almost a scream: “Don’t let it in!”

The call cut off.

The front door creaked, just slightly, as if pushed by an unseen hand.

That was enough. Heart hammering, I stumbled back, sprinted to my car, and sped away without looking in the rearview mirror.

When I finally reached home, my phone buzzed again. This time it was a text.

From Sarah’s old number.

Just three words:

“You listened. Good.”

I dropped the phone, my entire body shaking.

And from that night on, I never drove down that road again.

But sometimes, late at night, when my house is quiet and the world is still, I swear I hear it—faint and distant—my phone ringing.

The last call, waiting.