I Was Missing for Three Days—But No One Remembers. Not Even Me.

I woke up on my couch, wearing the same clothes I had on Tuesday.

But it was Friday.

My phone had 27 missed calls, a few messages from coworkers asking if I was okay, and one from my sister that simply said:

“Call me. Please.”

I had no memory of the past three days.

I wasn’t drunk. There were no signs of a break-in, no blood, no bruises. Just silence.

I called my sister.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “Oh my God. We thought you were gone.”

"Gone where?" I asked, my voice shaking.

“You told me you were driving upstate for the weekend. You never came back. The police said they found your car near the edge of the Pinefield woods... door open, keys inside. No signs of a struggle.”

I’ve never been to Pinefield in my life.

I checked my car. It was parked outside, perfectly normal. Except for the mud.

Thick, reddish mud covered the tires, the kind that only comes from up north. From Pinefield.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak in the house made my skin crawl. Around 3 a.m., I found something on my phone I hadn’t noticed before: a new voice memo. No title. Just a timestamp—Wednesday, 2:44 a.m.

I played it.

Whispers. Dozens of them. Layered over each other like a crowd in a dark room.

Then a voice. Clear. Male.

“Don’t remember. Don’t ask. Just go back.”

Click.

The recording ends.

I checked my call log. Nothing. No outgoing calls. No app had accessed the microphone.

I deleted the memo.

But the next morning, it was back.

Same file.

Same voice.

Different message.

“You’re not done yet.”