The Phone That Still Rings at Midnight

By [Junaid Ur Rehman]

Author's Note: This story was developed with assistance from AI (ChatGPT), with final edits and input by the author.

My mother died on a Tuesday.

They said it was peaceful — heart failure in her sleep. She didn’t suffer. But no one prepares you for the stillness that follows someone who made your world loud in the best possible ways. It’s not just the absence of her voice. It’s the empty coffee mug by the sink. The silence during commercials where she’d always make some comment. The space where her laugh used to live.

She was the kind of person who made you feel noticed. She remembered the names of my friends, sent me photos of clouds that looked like animals, and texted me little reminders like, “Drink water. I know you forgot.”

Her phone was one of those flip models from the early 2000s. No apps. No touchscreen. Just numbers, a pixelated background of her garden, and twelve years of contacts she rarely called — except for me and my sister. After she passed, we placed it in a box with her watch and reading glasses. A time capsule of someone who no longer existed.

A week after the funeral, her number started calling me.

At first, I thought it was a mistake. Maybe the carrier had recycled the number, or there was some billing glitch. But when I answered, all I heard was wind. Not static — wind. A low, hollow sound, like standing near the ocean at night. It wasn’t a recording. It wasn’t silence. It was... presence. Quiet, but not empty.

The calls came in at the exact same time every night: 12:03 AM. Never a minute early. Never late.

I told myself it was a glitch. I reported it to the phone company. They told me the line had been deactivated and removed from their system weeks ago. I even asked for written confirmation. It came in the mail a few days later — her number was gone.

But the calls continued.

At some point, I stopped trying to explain it. I stopped telling my sister after the second week — she thought I was having a breakdown and offered to come stay with me. I told my therapist, who said it could be unresolved grief manifesting in hallucinations.

But hallucinations don’t show up on your call log.

I never blocked the number. Deep down, I think I didn’t want to. Because as much as it haunted me, that ringing meant something. It meant she was still close. It meant maybe — just maybe — we don’t lose everything when people die.

The calls continued for over three years. That’s 1,113 nights, if you’re wondering. And yes, I counted.

Some nights, I let the phone ring out. Other nights, I answered, just to hear the wind. I started talking to it — telling her about my day, the job I quit, the recipe I burned, the fact that the house still smelled like her perfume in one corner of the hallway.

And then, last night, she finally spoke.

Her voice was faint, like she was standing on the edge of a storm.

“Don’t sell the house,” she whispered.

That was it. The line went dead. But this time... it felt final. I stared at the screen for a long time, hand shaking.

The house. Her house. The one I’d been preparing to sell next week.

It made no logical sense, but I felt it deep in my chest — like her voice had reached into my ribs and pressed the brakes on something I wasn’t supposed to do.

This morning, I called the realtor and canceled the listing.

I don’t know what I believe anymore. I don’t know if ghosts are real, or if our grief just creates echoes that feel like spirits.

But I do know this:

The phone will ring again tonight.

And this time...

I’m going to ask her why.