I Answered a Call From My Dead Mother — And She Asked Me to Come Home

I still remember the exact date — October 14th, 2021.

It was 2:17 AM, and I was lying in bed, scrolling aimlessly through my phone when it rang.

Not my mobile.

Not my office landline.

The sound came from the old rotary phone in the living room.

That phone hasn’t worked in years.

It was my mother’s favorite — a heavy black dial with a fraying cord and a tiny crack on the receiver.

After she died, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.

I thought maybe it was my way of keeping her close.

But hearing it ring that night…

It froze my blood.

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I hesitated, waiting for it to stop, telling myself it was probably a wiring glitch or maybe static interference.

But it kept ringing.

Slow, deep, almost impatient.

I finally walked toward it.

The air felt heavy, the kind of heaviness you feel before a thunderstorm — but the weather was perfectly still.

I picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

For a second, all I heard was breathing.

Then… a voice.

Her voice.

“Kiran… it’s Mom.”

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

It was the same soft tone, the same slight rasp she always had when she’d been laughing earlier in the day.

“You need to come home,” she said.

Her words were gentle, but there was something else under them — urgency. Fear.

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“Mom…?” I whispered, my hands trembling.

“This isn’t real… you’re…”

“Please, Kiran,” she interrupted, “you have to come before it’s too late.”

Before I could respond, the line went dead.

I just stood there, clutching the receiver, my chest pounding.

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My mother died two years ago in that very house — my childhood home — nearly 200 miles away.

I hadn’t been back since the funeral.

We had… a complicated relationship, and I told myself I had moved on.

But now?

At 2:17 AM, with her voice still echoing in my ears… moving on felt impossible.

---

I didn’t sleep that night.

By morning, I had convinced myself it was some kind of vivid dream.

Until my phone buzzed with a message from my cousin, Rafiq.

> Rafiq: “Hey, did you hear? Someone broke into the old house last night. Neighbors said they saw the front door wide open.”

The same house my mother had asked me to “come home” to.

---

Something inside me snapped.

I packed a small bag, grabbed my car keys, and drove.

The road was quiet. Too quiet.

Every mile felt like a step back in time — back to the creaky wooden floors, the smell of her cooking, and the sound of her laughter from the kitchen.

When I finally reached the house, the front gate was swinging open.

The lock was broken.

---

Inside, the air was cold — colder than outside, almost damp.

Nothing looked touched or stolen.

But I noticed something odd.

The old rotary phone was off the hook.

I picked it up.

Static.

Then… a faint whisper.

“Kiran… you’re here.”

---

I turned around, and for a split second, I saw her.

Standing in the hallway, wearing her favorite pale blue shawl, her face exactly as I remembered — except her eyes… her eyes weren’t right.

They were darker.

Deeper.

Almost empty.

She lifted her hand, pointing toward the kitchen.

---

I followed, my breath shallow.

On the kitchen table was a single envelope.

It had my name written in my mother’s handwriting.

Inside was an old photograph of me as a child — sitting at that very table, laughing, my mother standing behind me with her hands on my shoulders.

But there was someone else in the picture too.

A tall, shadowy figure in the corner, barely visible… yet somehow staring directly at me.

---

I looked up.

She was gone.

The phone in the living room started ringing again.

But this time, I didn’t answer.

I ran.

---

It’s been months since that night.

I moved to a different city. Changed my number.

But sometimes… at exactly 2:17 AM…

My phone rings once. Just once.

And when I check the call log, it always says: No Caller ID.

I never answer.

Because deep down, I know…

If I do…

She’ll ask me to come home again.

And next time… I might not be able to leave.

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