The Phone That Rang in the Forest

The forest behind my grandfather’s house had always been silent.

No signal. No people. No reason to go there—unless you wanted to get lost or find peace. But that night, peace was the last thing I found.

It started with a sound I wasn’t expecting to hear in the woods.

A phone ringing.

I was walking alone, taking a shortcut home after maghrib prayers. My cousin dared me to go through the old trail—said I was too scared. So I walked, pretending I was brave.

But then… I heard it.

Rrring. Rrring.

Clear. Sharp. Out of place.

I stopped. My heart thumped in my chest.

There was no one around.

And yet… the ringing continued.

The Phone

I followed the sound, stepping through fallen branches, dry leaves crunching beneath my feet.

The sound led me to an old stump under a twisted tree. There, sitting as if placed carefully, was a black mobile phone. Old. Like something from ten years ago. Its screen glowed.

INCOMING CALL – UNKNOWN

I didn’t want to touch it. But something—curiosity or fear—made me pick it up.

I answered.

Silence.

Then… a whisper:

“You were supposed to help me.”

I froze. “Who is this?”

No reply.

Then static. Then… the call ended.

I looked around. No one.

And then, the phone rang again.

The Voice

This time, the whisper was clearer:

“You left me. In the well. I’m still there.”

I nearly dropped the phone. My hands trembled.

In the well?

There was an old well deep in the forest—abandoned for decades. My grandfather once warned us never to go near it. “Someone disappeared there long ago,” he’d said. “A boy who was never found.”

Was this some kind of sick joke?

I threw the phone down and ran all the way home.

The Photo

At night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the voice. About the well. About what I’d heard.

Something inside told me to go back.

At sunrise, I returned to the spot—but the phone was gone.

In its place was a small, torn photograph pinned to the tree bark.

It showed two boys. One of them was me.

The other was a boy I didn’t recognize… but he looked familiar. As if I should know him.

The Forgotten Friend

I took the photo to my grandmother. Her face turned pale.

She whispered, “That’s Faizan. He was your best friend when you were five.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

She hesitated. “He disappeared. They said he wandered off and fell… they never found him. You were there too, but you were too young to remember. You forgot him.”

The memories hit me like a wave.

A boy. Laughing. Playing hide and seek near the old well.

A scream.

Then nothing.

I had buried the memory.

The Final Call

That night, the phone rang again. But this time—it was on my own bed.

I picked it up slowly.

“You remember now,” said the voice. “I waited. I never blamed you. But now… help me come home.”

The voice was calm. Not angry. Not sad.

Just waiting.

The Well

I returned to the forest with my uncle and some villagers. I told them everything.

They thought I was mad—until we reached the old well and looked down.

There, buried beneath broken wood and rubble, were the remains of a small skeleton.

The forest fell silent.

The next day, we held a proper funeral. A gravestone was placed with his name: Faizan Iqbal.

That night, the phone never rang again.

Peace

Sometimes, the people we forget never really leave.

They wait—for memory, for justice, for peace.

And sometimes… they just want to be found.