My Dead Brother Sends Me Voicemails

The first voicemail came on the anniversary of his death.

It was just after midnight. I was scrolling through old photos of us when my phone buzzed. The caller ID said “Unknown.” I let it go to voicemail. A minute later, a notification lit up:

1 New Voicemail.

I expected silence. Maybe a robocall. But then… his voice.

“Hey Liam… it’s me. I just wanted to say I’m okay. I miss you. Please don’t cry today. I know it still hurts.”

I dropped the phone. It couldn’t be. It had been two years since Noah died in the accident.

I replayed it five times. Every word. Every breath. It was him. My brother. The voice that had gone silent on a rainy night and a slick road when his car slid into the river.

The next message came three days later.

“Liam, listen. There’s something I need to tell you. It wasn’t just an accident. There was someone else on the bridge that night... someone who shouldn’t have been there.”

Goosebumps. My hands shook. I hadn’t slept since the first call, but now this? What did he mean? Was someone responsible?

I called the number back — disconnected.

I took the voicemail to my mom. She broke down. “That’s him,” she whispered, holding her chest like she couldn’t breathe. “That’s my baby.”

I didn’t tell her about the second message.

The third voicemail came a week later.

“He was in a black truck. Watch for it. It’ll come back.”

I didn’t understand. But something inside me believed him. Noah never lied. Not when he was alive — and apparently, not even after.

I started digging. I requested the accident report again. Witnesses said there was a vehicle seen speeding behind Noah on the bridge — never identified.

My heart raced. Had Noah been run off the road?

I began seeing the truck.

A matte black pickup. Same dents. Same cracked headlight. It would appear in my rearview mirror, follow me for a few blocks, then vanish.

I reported it to the police. They brushed me off. “Could be paranoia. Grief does strange things,” they said.

But then came the fourth message:

“Liam… you’re close. He knows. Be careful. Don’t go out alone after midnight.”

That night, I stayed in. Lights off. I watched the street from my window.

At exactly 12:17 AM, the black truck passed by my house — slow, deliberate. My heart pounded so loud I could barely breathe.

I started recording everything. Photos. Videos. License plates. I wasn’t just going to grieve anymore — I was going to find out the truth.

One night, I followed the truck. It led me to an old mechanic’s garage on the edge of town.

I stayed hidden, watching. A man stepped out, lit a cigarette, and laughed with someone inside.

He looked… familiar.

I sent the photo to a friend of Noah’s. He replied immediately:

“That’s Carter. Noah’s ex-friend. They had a fight the day before the accident.”

The pieces clicked.

The anger. The betrayal. The chase.

Carter had followed him that night.

The fifth voicemail came that same night.

“Thank you. I couldn’t rest. Now you know. I love you, little bro.”

That was the last time I heard his voice.

I handed everything to the police — the recordings, the evidence, the voicemail transcripts. They opened a case. Carter was brought in for questioning. I don’t know what happens next.

But I know what matters.

Noah didn’t leave me. Not really. Somehow, through static and signals and something beyond science… he reached out.

To say goodbye.

To protect me.

To make things right.