☎️ Every Night, My Dead Brother Calls Me

It started on a Sunday night — the kind of night when the air feels too still, too heavy, like the world is waiting for something to happen. The phone rang at 2:17 a.m.

That number meant nothing to me then, but now it’s the time I’ll never forget. When I answered, there was only static. Then came the sound of breathing — slow, uneven, familiar. “You’re not sleeping again, are you?”

My heart froze. That voice belonged to my brother. But he had been dead for three months. I hung up immediately, telling myself it was a dream or a cruel glitch. But the next night, the phone rang again. Same time. Same sound. I let it ring until it stopped, but when I checked my voicemail, a whisper came through: “You always ignore me. Don’t make me come closer.” I deleted the message, or tried to — it wouldn’t disappear.

By the third night, I started keeping the phone in another room, but at 2:17, the ringing grew louder, echoing through the walls like it was coming from inside the house. I finally answered, shaking.

“What do you want?” Static hissed in my ear, then his voice replied, “To come home.” The lights flickered, and the air turned cold. I could smell rain even though the windows were shut. “You left me,” he said. “You didn’t answer when I called.” My throat went dry because he was right — the night of the crash, he had called three times. I was asleep. He died trying to reach me.

After that, the calls never stopped. Every night at 2:17, the same sound, the same voice. Sometimes I heard whispering behind him — too many voices, all blending into one. One night, he said, “They don’t like when I talk to you, but they said I can visit if you say yes.” My stomach twisted. “Visit?” I whispered. “Just say yes,” he said. Then the line cracked, and I heard something wet dragging against metal, like fingernails scraping a coffin lid. I threw the phone across the room, but it kept ringing anyway.

That weekend, I went to his grave. The soil was soft, freshly disturbed. There were bare footprints leading away from the headstone and stopping at the edge of the woods. My phone vibrated in my pocket — “Incoming Call: UNKNOWN NUMBER.” The time was 2:17 a.m. The air reeked of dirt and rot. I answered, and what I heard wasn’t his voice. It was mine. “Why didn’t you open the door?” the voice said. Then I heard a knock behind me. I turned, but no one was there. When I looked down, the footprints were deeper, like someone had taken another step.

That night, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Again and again, until the battery burned hot in my hand. When I finally answered one last time, I screamed, “What do you want from me?” And then I heard it — not from the phone, but from just behind my ear. “I told you,” the voice said softly. “To come home.” The line went dead. The lights went out. And then I heard a second phone ringing — this time from the basement.

I don’t remember walking down there. I just remember the smell — wet earth, mold, decay. The sound was coming from an old rotary phone that wasn’t even plugged in. I picked it up, my hands shaking. “Hello?” I whispered. “You said yes,” my brother whispered back. And then something cold touched my shoulder.

They found my house empty the next morning. The phone was still off the hook. At exactly 2:17 a.m., it rang again. This time, my mother answered. She swears she heard my voice say, “You’re not sleeping again, are you?”

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