The Last Message

Eliot Hayes had never believed in ghosts.

Sure, he'd heard the stories—tales of people hearing voices, seeing figures in the shadows, or even receiving posthumous messages from loved ones. But Eliot had always dismissed them as coincidence, imagination, or grief-driven fantasies.

That was until the night he received a text message from his best friend, James.

James had died six months ago in a tragic accident. The news had crushed Eliot. The sudden loss left a hole in his heart, a pain that hadn’t dulled with time. He still visited James’s grave, still talked to him when the weight of loneliness became unbearable.

That night, as Eliot sat in his dimly lit apartment, his phone buzzed.

A message.

From James.

At first, Eliot thought it was some kind of sick joke—maybe a prank from one of his friends using a hidden number. But when he opened it, his heart stopped.

The message was simple. Just one line:

“I’m still here.”

Eliot blinked in disbelief. He checked the number. It was James’s. There was no mistake.

He swallowed hard, his fingers shaking as he typed a response.

“James, this isn’t funny. You’re gone. You can’t be texting me.”

The reply came almost immediately.

“I know. But I’m not gone. Not really.”

Eliot’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t possible. He had no idea how to react. A part of him wanted to call the police, another part wanted to scream for help. But a deep, irrational part of him wanted to know more.

He typed again.

“What are you trying to tell me?”

This time, the response was delayed. Eliot stared at the screen, waiting. His breath caught in his throat as the next message finally appeared.

“You’re not ready for what comes next.”

Eliot’s heart hammered in his chest. What did that mean? Was James trying to warn him?

The text bubble appeared again, as if James were still typing. Eliot’s fingers hovered over the phone, frozen with a sense of dread. The final message appeared after a moment’s pause:

“I’m not alone here.”

Before Eliot could reply, the phone buzzed again, this time with a call. The screen showed James’s name.

Eliot’s stomach churned. There was no way. James couldn’t be calling. He couldn’t—

His hand moved against his will, and he pressed the answer button.

The silence on the other end was suffocating. Then, a voice he thought he would never hear again whispered through the phone.

“Eliot, listen closely. It’s not over. I need you to—”

Suddenly, the call ended. The screen went black.

Eliot sat in stunned silence, his mind reeling. He tried to call back, but there was no response. He checked his phone—no messages, no missed calls.

For hours, he sat in his apartment, staring at his phone in disbelief. Had it been a prank? Some kind of sick joke his grief-stricken mind had invented? Or had James really tried to reach him from the other side?

But when Eliot went to bed that night, the unease lingered. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him.

As he lay in the dark, he heard it—an almost imperceptible whisper.

“Eliot.”

He jerked upright, his eyes wide in the darkness. He couldn’t see anyone. He couldn’t hear anything else.

But deep down, he knew—

James hadn’t just tried to reach out. He had left a warning.

And it was far from over.