The Voicemail from My Future

I froze as the screen flickered to life. It was 2:17 AM—the middle of the night when nothing good ever happens. My phone lay on the nightstand, face‑down and locked. I’d forgotten all about it until the vibration roused me from a half‑dream. Bleary‑eyed, I flipped it over. One new notification: a voicemail from an unknown number.

I sat up, heart thudding. I never check voicemails at this hour. With a trembling thumb, I tapped “Play.”

Voicemail (06/20/2025, 02:15 AM):

“You don’t know me, but I’m calling from six months in your future. Listen carefully: on December 14th, at precisely 8:03 PM, you’ll be standing on the corner of Fifth and Elm. A car will mount the curb and hit you. You—yes, you—will be killed. If you want to live, do not go there. I’ll call again.”

Silence followed, broken only by my ragged breathing. The date. Six months from now. How could someone send me a message from the future?

I bolted upright. Logic scrambled. Was it some sick prank? Deep‑fake audio? If someone knew my schedule, they could have timed a call to scare me. But why claim it came from the future? And how would they know the exact date and time?

I lay awake until dawn, replaying the message in my mind. Fear, the raw kind, gnawed at my gut. I needed answers.

Chapter One: The Investigation Begins

By morning, I’d turned my apartment upside‑down looking for clues. Nothing. My calendar—digital and paper—held no appointments at Fifth and Elm on December 14th. I scrolled through my phone bills: no outgoing calls to that number, no incoming texts. It was as if the voicemail materialized from thin air.

My journalistic instincts kicked in. I needed proof—anything to corroborate the message. First, I checked the phone’s metadata. The file showed its creation timestamp was exactly 2:15 AM, June 20th, today. No edits, no signs of tampering. Whoever—or whatever—left it did so in real time.

Next, I reached out to a friend in digital forensics, Maya. Over coffee, she ran a rapid forensic analysis on my phone’s voicemail system. “No sign of hacking,” she concluded. “It came through the provider’s network legitimately.”

I slammed my hands on the table. “So there’s no way it’s a hoax?”

Maya met my gaze. “Unless your provider is complicit.”

Chapter Two: Chasing Shadows

I spent the next week replaying that message, each listen ratcheting up my anxiety. I avoided mirrors—didn’t want to see the haunted look in my own eyes. My friends noticed my pale cheeks and jittery smile. I brushed off their concern, but inside, I felt like I was unraveling.

I tried to steer clear of Fifth and Elm, but fate—or something—had other plans. Every time I turned a corner, I caught a glimpse of that intersection in the distance. The streetlamp that flickered at night, the brick bakery on the corner, the indecipherable graffiti on the lamppost—all became markers in a macabre countdown.

On June 25th, I got a second voicemail. Same number.

Voicemail (06/25/2025, 11:42 PM): “You’re doing well avoiding Fifth and Elm. But time is slipping away. You have 172 days to prevent your death. I’ll help you—look for the hidden key.”

A hidden key?

My pulse raced. What key? My apartment key? My bike lock? Or was it metaphorical—a clue tucked in plain sight?

Chapter Three: Decoding the Clues

I combed through every voicemail from loved ones, every old recording I’d made for work. Nothing. Then I remembered the antique music box I’d inherited from my grandmother. It contained a tiny key, ornate and tarnished. The inscription on the inside lid read: Tempus fugit—“Time flies.”

Could this be “the key” the caller meant? I wound the box on a sleepless night, and its melody echoed like a lullaby. Tucked beneath the felt lining was an envelope—yellowed paper, my grandmother’s handwriting. Inside, a single photograph of a younger version of me standing at Fifth and Elm…on December 14th, 2010.

Cold dread washed over me. Ten years ago, I’d been eight years old—the same corner where the tragedy was supposed to strike me. A memory surfaced: I’d almost been hit by a car that day, pulled back at the last second by my mother’s hand.

Chapter Four: Changing Fate

If I was meant to die at that corner, maybe the key was the photograph—a warning. I realized the only way to break the cycle was to recreate what happened in 2015: bring someone—my mother—back to that spot at the same date and time.

I messaged her, careful not to sound frantic: “Mom, remember that scary day in 2010, Fifth and Elm? I’d like to take you there—when it’s safe—to say thank you.”

When December 14th arrived, I felt far more trepidation than triumph. I left work early and picked up my mother. I’d rehearsed my words all day—yet, as we pulled up to Fifth and Elm under the soft glow of streetlights, my throat tightened.

“Mom,” I began, voice low, “I’ve been thinking about that day in 2010—when you saved me from that car. I wanted to say thank you, properly.”

She touched my arm and gave a small, encouraging nod. We stepped onto the sidewalk together. At 8 PM on the dot, a sedan approached—its tires crunching gravel as the driver misjudged the turn. I stepped forward, pulling my mother back instinctively. The car lurched past us, its bumper scraping the curb. In that heartbeat, time didn’t bend—it didn’t echo with future messages. It simply moved forward, unpredictably.

My heart pounded, but relief washed over me. No voicemails punctured the air. No spectral warnings. Just two people shaken but safe.

We stayed on the corner until 8:15 PM, talking quietly about fear and gratitude. My mother squeezed my hand. “You did the right thing, bringing me back here,” she said. “We can’t change the past—but we can choose how we face tomorrow.”

As we drove home, the memory of that near‑miss felt like a stark reminder: no prophecy, no time‑slip, only the consequences of choices we make. And in that choice—to show up, to speak my thanks, to honor her protection—I found a new kind of freedom.

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