The Last Message: A Digital Ghost Story

The Last Message: A Digital Ghost Story

I never believed in ghosts.

Not until my sister died.

And her number kept texting me.

Three days after her funeral, I got the first message.

"Hey, remember the spot by the lake?"

It came from Leah's number—a number that should’ve been disconnected. My hands trembled as I stared at the screen, telling myself it had to be a cruel prank or a glitch. But deep inside, I knew.

Only Leah would say that.

That lake was our secret.

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. What do you say to the dead?

The next message came at 3:07 a.m.

"I can’t rest. He won’t let me."

That’s when the nightmares started.

I’d wake up drenched in sweat, seeing flashes of Leah’s face—not how she looked before the car crash, but how I imagined she looked after. Mangled. Eyes wide. Mouth trying to scream through shattered glass.

I tried calling the number. It rang once. Then static. Then silence.

I went to the phone company. They said the number was inactive. Disconnected the day after she died. “No possible way to send or receive messages,” the clerk said.

And yet, the messages kept coming.

"He’s watching. Just like he watched me."

"You know him. You trust him."

I started questioning everyone around me. My friends. My coworkers. Even my own memories.

That’s when I remembered: Leah had mentioned a man once.

A new therapist.

She said he made her uncomfortable.

His name was Dr. Simms. He was charming. Respected. A staple in our town.

I confronted him. He smiled the way predators do.

“You’re grieving,” he said, his voice smooth as glass. “Grief does strange things to the mind.”

That night, Leah sent me a photo.

Not just any photo—one that had never been taken.

It was her, tied up, eyes wide with terror. Behind her, a shadow. A man. Simms.

I took it to the police.

They didn’t believe me. Said the image could be AI. Fabricated. Faked. Simms had an alibi for the night Leah died.

I almost gave up—until I received the final message.

"He's coming for you next. Unless you stop him."

That’s when I knew. Leah wasn’t haunting me. She was protecting me.

The next morning, Simms was found dead.

Overdosed.

Phone in hand.

The texts stopped.

But sometimes, late at night, I still see my phone light up. No number. No message. Just a name.

Leah.

And I sleep better knowing she’s still watching.