She Called Me-Two Years After I Buried Her

I wasn’t supposed to hear her voice again. Not after the funeral. Not after the dirt hit the coffin and we all stood there in silence, trying to believe she was really gone.

Two years had passed since Sarah died. Two years of unanswered questions, restless nights, and that hollow ache that never left. She had been my closest friend—closer than a sister—and losing her had left a wound that time refused to heal.

So when my phone rang late on a Thursday evening, I didn’t think much of it at first. The number was unfamiliar, but that wasn’t unusual. I almost ignored it, but something—a strange pull—made me swipe and press the phone to my ear.

And then I froze.

“Hey… it’s me.”

My stomach dropped. My legs went weak. I sat down hard on the edge of my bed, gripping the phone so tight my knuckles ached.

It was her voice. Sarah’s voice.

She sounded the same—warm, steady, with that faint breathless laugh she always had when she was nervous. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My mind screamed that this was impossible, but my heart… my heart wanted to believe.

“Sarah?” I whispered.

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

The air around me felt heavy, charged, like the seconds were stretching thin. I wanted to ask a hundred questions—How? Why? Where are you?—but the words tangled in my throat.

Instead, I heard myself ask, “Why now? Why call me?”

Her voice shook a little. “Because you need to stop blaming yourself.”

I blinked, stunned. My chest tightened. Of course she knew. Sarah always knew me better than I knew myself. For two years I’d carried the guilt—that maybe if I had picked her up that night, or answered her last text faster, she’d still be alive.

Tears blurred my vision. “I should’ve been there, Sarah. I should’ve—”

“No,” she cut in firmly. “It wasn’t your fault. You need to hear that. You need to let me go.”

Her words pierced me, sharper than any knife. Because that was the one thing I hadn’t been able to do—let her go.

I pressed my forehead against my palm, sobbing quietly. “I don’t know how.”

“You will,” she said gently. And then her tone shifted, urgent now. “But listen—don’t go to the house.”

My head snapped up. “What house?”

She didn’t answer right away. I thought maybe the call had dropped, but then she whispered, “You’ll know when you see it. Promise me you won’t go inside.”

My pulse pounded. Fear crawled up my spine. “Sarah—what are you talking about? What house?”

But the line went dead.

I stared at the screen in shock. The call log showed the number: blocked. When I tried to call back, it didn’t connect.

For the rest of the night, I sat in silence, replaying her words again and again. Don’t go to the house.

But the thing is, when someone you’ve lost calls you from beyond the grave, the warning doesn’t fade. It lingers. It burns.

The next day, I drove to work as usual. Halfway there, I saw it.

A house I’d never noticed before—though I’d taken that road a hundred times. White paint peeling from the walls, windows boarded up, the kind of place kids dared each other to approach on Halloween.

I slammed on the brakes, heart pounding. My headlights caught the weather-worn wood, and the air around the house seemed heavier, darker somehow.

I don’t know how, but I knew instantly. This was the house.

My first instinct was to leave. To keep driving. To pretend I hadn’t seen it. But curiosity and fear battled inside me, and I found myself stepping out of the car, gravel crunching under my shoes.

The closer I got, the colder the air felt, like I had walked into a shadow that didn’t belong to the day.

And then—I heard it. A faint ringing.

My phone.

Hands trembling, I pulled it out. Unknown number. My chest tightened. I answered.

“Did you go?” Sarah’s voice snapped through the line, sharp and panicked.

I froze on the front path, staring at the rotting door. “I… I’m here,” I admitted.

Her voice rose, fierce now. “Leave. Now! I told you not to go!”

A sudden slam echoed inside the house, like something heavy had dropped. My blood turned cold.

“Sarah?” I whispered.

Static hissed through the line, and then her voice came one last time, breaking, desperate: “Please—don’t let it in.”

The call cut off.

I stumbled backward, heart racing, and ran to my car. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

That night, when I finally got home, the photo frame on my desk had fallen face down. I hadn’t touched it.

And sometimes—late at night—I swear I hear the faint ring of a phone from somewhere deep inside the walls.