Voice Memos from My Dead Sister

The first message came exactly seven days after Lily died.

It was a Tuesday. I remember that because grief made everything mechanical—measuring time in cups of coffee, unanswered texts, and hours spent staring at the ceiling, asking the same unanswerable question: Why her?

The notification buzzed softly on my nightstand, barely audible over the rain tapping against the windows. Voice Memo from Lily. 9:27 PM.

At first, I thought it was a glitch. Some leftover file. I’d listened to her voice memos dozens of times since the funeral. Her little rants. Her laughs. The one she left after a bad Tinder date that ended in her stealing a bottle of wine and running barefoot through a parking lot.

But this one was different.

I played it.

> “Hey, Em. I know this sounds insane. But I need you to listen—really listen. I don’t have much time, and I think I’m being watched. You have to go to the cabin.”



Her voice was shaky. Low. Not the Lily who laughed like summer. This Lily sounded afraid. Rushed.

Then static.

Then silence.

I dropped the phone. My heart punched against my ribs.


---

I didn’t sleep that night. My mind swung between denial and disbelief, crafting theories and discarding them. Had she scheduled the message before she died? No—Lily didn’t do planning. She barely did laundry.

By sunrise, I convinced myself it was a cruel prank. Maybe someone hacked her cloud account. People were sick enough to do that.

But then came the second message.

> “Remember the tin box in Dad’s attic? The one we weren’t supposed to open? Open it. You’ll understand. Just—don’t trust anyone yet. Not even Mom.”



I froze.

Lily and I had joked about that tin box when we were kids. Dad always said it was “full of boring legal stuff” and told us to stay out. We’d never opened it.

I didn’t tell anyone. Not Mom. Not even Mark, my boyfriend, who’d practically moved in since the funeral. I just drove.


---

The attic smelled like dust and ghosts.

The tin box was exactly where I remembered it—tucked behind a stack of faded photo albums and a broken fan. It was heavier than it looked. Inside: old documents, a sealed envelope, and a photo.

Lily. Me. And a woman who looked like our mother… but wasn’t.

I tore open the envelope.

Birth certificates.

Two sets.

Lily’s and mine.

Except Lily’s had a different last name.

Different parents.

Different birth city.


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The third message came while I sat in the attic, the box in my lap.

> “They lied to us, Em. About who we are. About who I am. I think they found me because I was asking questions. Because I remembered too much. Don’t let them find you, too.”



She was crying. I’d never heard her cry like that.

I stared at the photo again. The woman—her smile was Lily’s smile. Same dimple. Same tilt of the head. Our mother never had that dimple.

I took the box, stuffed it in my bag, and drove back to the apartment. My hands were shaking. My chest felt like it held a hundred bees.

When I walked through the door, Mark was in the kitchen. He smiled. Too wide. Too calm.

“I was getting worried,” he said. “You didn’t say where you were going.”

I stared at him. Something in his voice was… wrong.

“I need to shower,” I muttered.

I locked the bathroom door and pulled out my phone.

Another message.

> “Don’t trust Mark. He’s not who you think.”



I dropped the phone again.


---

That night, I left.

I didn’t pack much. Just the box, my phone, and some cash.

I drove for hours. Past the city, past the blinking lights, until the trees swallowed the road. Lily and I had visited the family cabin every summer until we were teenagers. I hadn’t been back since.

The cabin was exactly as we left it—dusty, cold, forgotten.

I sat in the living room, staring at the dark fireplace, playing the messages again and again.

> “You have to finish what I started. They erased us, Em. You need to remember. Go under the floorboards in the bedroom. You’ll find the rest.”



Under the floorboards, I found a flash drive, a journal, and a photo ID that didn’t belong to Lily—but looked exactly like her, with a different name.


---

The final message came three nights later.

> “I’m out of time. If you’re hearing this, it means you found the drive. Share it. Let the truth out. I love you. I always have. Don’t let them erase me again.”



And then her voice cracked.

> “Goodbye, Em.”



No static. No distortion.

Just… nothing.


---

I don’t know who “they” are. Not yet.

But I know Lily wasn’t crazy. I know she found something she wasn’t supposed to. And I know I’m next.

I haven’t shared the drive. Not yet.

But I will.

Because my sister’s voice is gone now. For good.

And I won’t let it stay that way.


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