"Missed Call at Midnight"

Missed Call at Midnight

The first time it happened, Daniel was drunk.

He’d been alone on his birthday for the third year in a row. No party, no cake, just a bottle of scotch and reruns of Jeopardy echoing through the walls of his too-quiet apartment. It was close to midnight when his phone buzzed. He was too far gone to notice until the next morning, when he blinked blearily at the missed call notification.

“Mom.”

He stared at the name on the screen, the contact that had remained untouched since her death five years ago. No number. Just “Missed Call. 12:00 AM.”

He chalked it up to some glitch or a pocket dial from a recycled number. Deleted the notification. Shoved the idea from his mind.

Until the next year.

This time, he was sober. Watching the digital clock on the stove turn from 11:59 to 12:00, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise—like he was being watched by something both familiar and unreachable.

Buzz.

“Missed Call. Mom. 12:00 AM.”

His breath caught. He answered it instinctively this time, but there was no voice—just a soft, static breath on the other end. A sound that reminded him of the hum she used to make while folding laundry. It cut off after three seconds. The line went dead.

He didn’t sleep that night.

—

Over the years, it became a ritual. On July 10th at midnight, he would sit alone in his living room, staring at the phone, waiting. And every year, the call came—never early, never late. Always just that familiar contact name and a single, breathy whisper.

But this year, it was different.

This year, the voice spoke.

—

Daniel had just turned thirty-eight. The years had taken their toll—stress shadows under his eyes, gray crawling at his temples. He hadn't celebrated his birthday in years. It felt wrong to, like it was a secret he and his mother were sharing.

As midnight neared, he held the phone in his hand, not on the table like usual. There was a heaviness in his chest he couldn't explain. The air felt charged.

Then, it rang.

He pressed “Answer” and raised the phone slowly to his ear.

Silence.

Then a soft, trembling voice:

“Daniel.”

He nearly dropped the phone.

“Daniel, baby. I miss you.”

His lips moved but no sound came out. He didn’t know whether to cry or scream. He gripped the armrest of the couch like it would keep him from floating away.

“Mom?” he finally whispered.

“I don’t have much time,” she said, voice warbling like it traveled through water. “You need to listen.”

He stood, pacing, his legs suddenly too alive. “How is this happening? Are you—where are you?”

“I’m not where I should be,” she said. “Something’s keeping me here. I’ve been trying to reach you. The others don’t remember. But I do.”

“The others?”

“People don’t just go, Daniel. Not all of them. Some get stuck. Because of things unsaid. Because of pain that loops. We become echoes. I’ve been an echo.”

He could feel his pulse in his ears. “What do you mean, stuck? How do I help you?”

There was a long pause. Then her voice again, now strained:

“The day I died... I wasn’t alone.”

Daniel stopped cold.

“What?”

“I was going to tell you, but I ran out of time. It wasn’t a heart attack, baby. It looked like it. But I saw someone—behind me. I felt cold hands. Then nothing.”

“Mom, I don’t understand—”

“You have to find the photo album. The old one. With the red velvet cover. It’s in the attic. He’s in one of the photos. From the year before I died. You’ll know when you see him. He doesn’t belong.”

“What do I do when I find him?”

No response. Only silence, then static.

“Mom? Mom!”

The line cut out.

—

Daniel spent the rest of the night in the attic, his hands shaking as he tore through old boxes. When he found the album—red velvet, dusty, heavy with time—he turned the pages slowly.

Christmas. A birthday. A beach trip.

And then, in a picture taken in their backyard, there he was.

A tall, thin man standing far in the background. Too far from the family gathering to be included, yet staring directly at the camera. His face was pale, and there was a grin—crooked and unnatural—spreading across it.

Daniel didn't recognize him.

He checked the photo again. The date was two weeks before his mother died.

And in the corner of the photograph, in faint handwriting he didn’t remember ever seeing before, was a note:

“He’s still watching.”

Daniel’s phone buzzed.

Missed Call. 12:01 AM. Unknown.