"The Last Voicemail"

M Mehran

Maya stirred in her bed, one arm blindly fumbling across the nightstand. A half-empty glass of water crashed to the floor as her fingers found the phone.

Unknown Number.
She nearly declined it.

But something—instinct, maybe—made her swipe up.

“Hello?”

Static.

Then a voice, low and familiar.

“Don’t come to the cabin… it’s not safe.”

The line went dead.

Maya sat up, pulse hammering. It wasn’t the message that scared her—it was the voice. It belonged to her brother, Jake. The same Jake who had been missing for three years.


---

Jake was declared dead after a storm swept through Ashwood Forest. His Jeep was found crushed by a fallen tree. No body. No blood. Just mud, silence, and speculation.

Maya never believed he was gone. She’d gone back to the old family cabin every year on the anniversary. Just in case.


---

By sunrise, Maya was behind the wheel of her ancient Subaru, tires eating miles like fire through dry brush.

The cabin looked untouched. No footprints. No broken windows. Nothing to suggest a warning was necessary.

She unlocked the door.

It groaned like it remembered her.

Inside, the air was stale—except for the faint scent of smoke.

She called out. “Jake?”

Silence.

Then, behind her—

The voicemail played again.
Louder. From her phone. On its own.

“Don’t come to the cabin… it’s not safe.”

Chills crept up her arms. She hadn’t saved the message. She’d checked three times. Her phone was on airplane mode.


---

She moved through the cabin slowly, every creak a scream in her ears. In Jake’s old room, the bookshelf was knocked over, pages torn, as if someone—or something—had been looking for something.

In the center of the floor, an old cassette recorder.

She knelt.

Pressed play.

Her brother’s voice, clearer this time.

> “Maya… if you're hearing this, it means something got out. We found it under the lake. I thought it was just a cave, but it... whispers. It shows you things. Dead things. Versions of yourself. Don’t listen. Don’t look. And whatever you do—don’t follow it.”



A knock.

Maya froze.

Someone was outside.

Another knock. Then, a whisper through the wood:

> “Maya… it’s Jake. Let me in.”



Her eyes darted to the recorder.

Jake’s warning echoed: Don’t follow it.

The whisper came again.

> “I’m cold… please, Maya.”



She held her breath.

“I brought your favorite… lemon drops. Remember?”

He did used to bring them. When they were kids. Before he disappeared.
But he hadn’t known her new favorite candy was sour cherries—not for years.

That’s when she knew.

It wasn’t Jake.


---

The door began to creak open.

Maya lunged for the recorder and slammed it against the door frame.

A scream—inhuman—ripped through the forest. The door slammed shut as if the house itself rejected the thing outside.

Her phone buzzed again.

Another voicemail.

This time, just three words.

“Run. It’s inside.”


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