Voicemail

For Kenny Penn's Frighten Me Challenge

The apartment was old, decrepit; but busy lawyer Sandra had fallen in love with its rustic doors and cozy, small bedrooms. There was only one problem-constant voicemails.

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Spam calls and messages were Sandra’s pet peeves.They were unstoppable—persistent robocalls, fake lottery wins, numbers from ambiguous locations. But a voicemail from an unknown number made her pause that day. She answered it, knowing she shouldn't have.

The voice was dissonant, like distant echoes in a tunnel:

“Don’t take the fire exit today.”

Sandra frowned. Her first instinct was to ignore it. It was someone’s perverse humour. The voice didn't seem to belong to anyone. It sounded familiar, unsettling. It lingered in her mind like an unwelcome guest.

📞🔊🤖📱🔔💬🗣️☎📞🔊🤖📱🔔💬🗣️☎️🎙️📟📞🔊🤖📱🔔💬🗣️☎️🎙️

Later that evening, Sandra stood in front of the stairs to the fire exit. The warning replayed in her head like a broken record. She drew a deep breath, swiping her hand across her face. She pressed the button but then—stopped.

The doors swung open. Sandra took a tentative step forward before something gave her pause. She turned on her heel, backed away, and took the stairs. Her nerves tightened with each step she took, but remained confused about what happened.

Moments after reaching her floor, a thunderous crash echoed through the building. People rushed out of their apartments. The cables of the elevator snapped, causing it to crash down to the basement.

Sandra swayed, her limbs weakening. She collapsed onto her couch, hands shaking. The warning had saved her life. But who had sent it? She replayed the message again and again, but was clueless.

The voice was familiar—too familiar.

She moved through the messages on her cell phone with obsessive abandon the next day. Each notification made her cringe, her heart pound. The voice haunted the recesses of her mind. Though dissonant, it sounded like hers, like a recording she made years ago.

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That evening saw another voicemail.

“Don’t answer the door at 10:00 tonight. It’s not safe.”

Sandra’s breath caught in her throat. The voice had grown more distorted but still sounded like hers. Who was playing these tricks?

The clock read 9:50 p.m. She sat rigidly on her couch, clutching her phone tightly. The ticks grew louder as the minutes flew by.

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At 10:05 p.m., a knock echoed through the small apartment. Sandra froze. It was soft at first, then louder, then urgent. She tiptoed to the door and peered through its peephole.

It was Alan-—her ex-husband. A former lawyer and respected professional at the top of his field, he had fallen into the drug trap. He stood at Sandra’s door, desperate, slouched against the doorframe. Sandra’s heart throbbed in her chest.

“Sandra, I need to talk to you! Open this door!” His voice quivered, pleading.

She paused. Alan had been erratic since their breakup—emotional, even unhinged. He’d never done anything violent, but lately, his messages had become unpredictable, darker.

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The voicemail warning replayed in her mind, resonant: It’s not who you think it is. She stepped back from the door, fingers frozen on the lock. She stood in time, hardly breathing, until Alan finally left. As he walked down the corridor, the sound of his laborious footsteps faded, and she sighed in relief.

A news alert resonated on the radio the next day—the police had arrested Alan at 10:05 p.m. He had ranted about finding her, and had gotten into a bar fight.

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The voicemails continued. The voicemail facility on her cellphone would teem with messages every few hours.

“Don’t drink the tea today. You’ll regret it.”

She skipped her usual tea break that morning, only to hear later that a gas leak had led to the cafe’s closure.

“Don’t go to the office this afternoon.”

Sandra called in sick that day. The police evacuated the office building, and she was safe. But the voice haunted her. Each of its warnings saved her from something terrible.

There was no denying that it was her voice, or some deranged version of it. Was someone using her voice against her? Was this a sophisticated prank? Sandra grew paranoid. Was anyone trustworthy?

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On the fifth day, a message came that was longer, and more chilling:

“In three days, you’ll disappear. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, but you can prepare.”

Sandra’s stomach dropped. Disappear? What did that mean? She played the message over and over, hoping to find some hidden meaning, something to ease her growing terror. But the voice—the voice that sounded so much like hers—gave her nothing more.

Frantic, she tried to trace the number, switched phones, blocked it—but the messages kept coming.

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The final message came on her tenth day at the apartment:

“Don’t go to the park this morning. Stay inside. They’re coming.”

Sandra’s hands shook as she listened to the message. Something about it was odd. The voice was no longer just insistent—it was frantic. It was as if the person on the other end was screaming as he raced with time.

Against the warning ringing in her head, Sandra went to the park. She sought answers.

The echoes of eerie silence filled the park. The late afternoon sun cast disturbing, long shadows across the lawns. Sandra wandered, feeling someone watching, but not seeing them.

Her phone rang once more—another live voicemail. She answered.

“Sandra! Why didn’t you listen? You weren’t supposed to come!” The voice—her voice—cried desperately.

Her blood ran cold.

And then, it hit her. The voice wasn’t coming from anyone else. It belonged to her future self, trapped in an infinite loop, trying to prevent the inevitable. Every message was a futile attempt to change the outcome.

But it was too late. It would repeat. And repeat.

In the gentle twilight, Sandra felt a sharp pain sear through her chest. Her phone slipped from her hand as she fell to the ground. The last thing she heard was the echo of the voice—her own—murmuring softly:

“It was always you.”