The Call Came After the Funeral

I had just gotten home from Lena’s funeral when my phone rang.

The sky outside was still heavy and gray from the storm that had passed earlier that day, and the air inside my apartment felt thick — like it weighed on me. Every breath felt harder than the last. My clothes clung to my skin, damp with sweat, but it wasn’t heat that made me uncomfortable. It was grief. The silence of the house was louder than any noise I could imagine. No humming from the kitchen, no soft shuffle of her slippers down the hallway, no laughter echoing from her room. Just stillness. A quiet that pressed in on me like a vice.

I wasn’t planning to answer the phone. Not today. Not after everything. Not after losing her. But when I looked at the screen, my breath caught in my throat.

It was her name. Lena.

Her contact photo stared back at me, exactly as it always had — her bright smile, hair catching the sunlight on our trip to the coast last summer. It was as if nothing had changed, as if she was still here, still alive, still just a phone call away.

But she was gone.

I had stood at her graveside just hours ago, surrounded by mourners. I had held her mother’s trembling hand while she sobbed, her tears soaking my sleeve. I had listened to the minister’s prayers, the final words that felt like a goodbye forever. I had watched the casket being lowered into the earth, the dirt thrown on top, the grave sealed.

And now, her name was calling me.

The phone buzzed a few more times, then stopped. I didn’t answer.

Maybe I was just too exhausted. Maybe it was grief playing tricks on my mind.

Then the voicemail came.

I stared at it for a long time, unsure if I wanted to listen.

But I pressed play.

“Hey... it’s me. I’m sorry I haven’t called. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m trying to get back... but I don’t know where I am. It’s cold. So cold. But I’m coming. Please... don’t forget me.”

It was her voice. Soft, tired. Just like I remembered.

But there was something else — a strange static, like the signal was breaking up. And beneath it, faint whispers, almost like chanting. I could barely make out the words, but they repeated, over and over: “Not done... not done... not done.”

I dropped the phone as if it had burned me.

That night, sleep wouldn’t come. I kept telling myself it was a glitch — some ancient voicemail that only now surfaced. Phones do weird things, right? Maybe she had recorded that message weeks ago, and it was only now delivering itself. Logic was the only anchor I had left.

The next day, desperate for some clarity, I went to the cemetery. Maybe seeing her resting place again would ground me. Maybe I’d find peace.

But when I got there, something was wrong.

Her grave looked disturbed. Not like vandalism. No. It was as if the earth itself had been clawed at from inside. The dirt was uneven, fresh in spots and flattened in others, like someone had tried to get out.

The coffin was still there, but the wood was cracked, splintered — as if something inside had fought to break free.

I didn’t stay to investigate. I left — fast.

Over the next week, the calls kept coming. Always late at night, always from her.

“Remember our first kiss?”

“I miss the way your hand fit in mine.”

“Please don’t move on yet.”

And always, beneath the voice, the whispers. “Not done. Not done. Not done.”

I changed my number. Bought a new phone. Nothing worked. The calls kept coming. The same message. The same voice. The same haunting refrain.

I stopped working. I stopped seeing people. Who would believe me anyway?

Then, last night, the doorbell rang.

I didn’t answer. But I crept to the peephole.

There she was.

Or at least, it looked like her.

Same long hair, the same soft smile.

But something was wrong.

Her skin was too pale. Her eyes didn’t blink. Her lips moved slowly, unnaturally, like they were underwater.

And then I heard her voice — not from the door, but inside my head, like a cold wind whispering.

“I told you... love doesn’t die. But it hurts when it’s forgotten.”

I backed away, heart pounding. I don’t know if I dreamed it. I want to believe I did.

But I haven’t slept since.

I buried her. I saw the grave. Felt the weight of the earth on her coffin.

But something is here now.

Something wearing her face.

And whatever it is... it isn’t done with me.

She died.

But she called me after the funeral.

And now she wants me to follow.