Voice Notes from a Ghost

Voice Notes from a Ghost

Genre: Fiction / Experimental

[Voice Message #1 – Received Sunday, 2:14 a.m.]

Hey, it’s me. I know this makes no sense, but I need you to listen. Not just hear me—listen. Don’t delete this. Please. If you’re hearing this, it means I’m already gone. But I swear—I didn’t want to leave like this. Something is coming. Something I didn’t understand until it was too late.

End of Message.

I thought it was a cruel prank at first.

Maybe someone hacked Liam’s old voicemail, or spliced audio from old recordings.

He’d been gone for seven months.

Car crash. Rain-slicked road. Dead on impact.

I’d memorized every sentence the police told me. Replayed it on nights when silence became unbearable.

But that voice message?

That wasn’t memory. That was new.

[Voice Message #2 – Received Monday, 3:27 a.m.]

You’re doubting it. I can feel that. Typical you. Always needing proof. Okay—proof: The sweater. The green one with the missing button. It’s under the couch. You thought you lost it at your sister’s last fall. You didn’t.

End of Message.

I dropped the phone.

Crawled on hands and knees to check under the couch.

There it was. Dusty, rumpled, and unmistakably mine.

Liam had always called it my "witch sweater." Said I looked like the heroine of some spooky novel when I wore it.

That night, I didn't sleep.

[Voice Message #3 – Received Wednesday, 12:01 a.m.]

They watch through light. Reflections. Windows. Phones. That's how they move. That's how they found me. Don’t look too long into mirrors. Don’t leave your camera on when you’re not using it. Cover the lens. Please.

End of Message.

The voice cracked near the end—like he was being pulled away, mid-thought.

I covered the mirror in the hallway.

Taped black construction paper over the webcam.

It felt insane, but it felt realer than grief.

Because Liam was talking to me.

Not as a dream. Not as a memory.

As a warning.

[Voice Message #4 – Received Friday, 3:33 a.m.]

They tried to mimic your voice. I didn’t answer. They got mad. That’s when the static started. It’s not noise, love. It’s a language. Buried between frequencies. They’re looking for an open line. Don’t answer late calls. Don’t play anything backward. God, I hope this reaches you in time.

End of Message.

I stopped listening to music.

I unplugged my smart speakers.

I tossed my echo-dot into the garbage and poured salt on top.

It felt symbolic. Like maybe salt could still protect the living.

I remembered Liam once told me—jokingly, while watching a horror movie—

"If anything ever happens to me, and I come back haunted, I’ll try to help you. Even from the other side."

We’d laughed.

But I wasn’t laughing now.

[Voice Message #5 – Received Sunday, 2:14 a.m.]

I’m losing time. The messages are getting harder to push through. But listen: There’s a place they don’t know. A dead zone. You’ll be safe there, at least for now. Take only what matters. No electronics. Go at sunrise.

37.1178° N, 121.6241° W

I love you. I never stopped. I never will.

End of Message.

I typed the coordinates into my phone.

A remote stretch near Mount Madonna, California.

I had no connection to the place.

But Liam… he used to hike there in college. Said it was one of the few places that felt “unplugged from everything.”

That night, the static on my radio hissed for hours, even when it was unplugged.

Monday Morning – Just Before Dawn

I packed a small bag.

Water. My journal. A photo of us.

Left my phone behind.

I didn’t know what I was walking into, but I felt something crackling at the edge of the world—like a storm held back by a whisper.

I drove until the sun began bleeding over the trees.

Parked. Walked.

The path was quiet. No birds. No wind. No signal.

Just stillness.

And then—

A click.

A tape recorder on a wooden bench.

Old, dusty, but warm to the touch.

I pressed play.

[Tape Recording – Unknown Origin]

You made it.

I knew you would.

There’s more. Not just about them, but about you. About why they’re drawn to us. To people who grieve like antennas. I couldn’t say everything in voice notes. They’d hear me. But here, in this quiet—

[SFX: Static rising]

I can finally tell you the truth.

That was the last time I heard his voice.

But I stayed.

There’s something in this place. Something thin, like the veil between breath and memory.

I write every day now.

Listening.

Waiting.

Because grief is a signal.

And I think someone else is trying to come through.