The Last Voicemail

The Last Voicemail

It started with a single ding on a rainy Tuesday night.

I had just come home, soaked in exhaustion more than rain, when my phone buzzed. One new voicemail. From Maya.

That name alone was enough to freeze my blood.

Because Maya — my fiancée — had died three years ago.

I stood there, keys still in my hand, heart thudding in my chest as I stared at the screen. A glitch, I thought. A cruel coincidence. Maybe someone spoofing her old number. I nearly deleted it, but something in me—some stubborn ghost of curiosity—pressed Play.

The static crackled.

Then her voice came through.

"Hey, Liam… it's me. I don't have much time. You have to listen. I’m not—”
—not where you think I am. I need you to come to the cabin. Please. Before Friday. Don’t trust—”
click

The message ended abruptly.

I sat down on the floor.

My therapist had warned me about this—grief hallucinations, unresolved trauma, the brain’s cruel habit of playing tapes of the dead. But this wasn’t my imagination. This was a real voicemail. Time-stamped two minutes ago.

And she said cabin.

We had a cabin. Her family’s old place up in Cold Pine Ridge. We hadn’t been there since the fall before the accident.

I called the number back. Disconnected. No longer in service.

That night, I didn’t sleep. My thoughts crawled over every word she’d said. “Don’t trust…” Who? Why the urgency? Why now?

I didn’t tell anyone. They’d think I was losing it. Maybe I was.

Still, on Thursday morning, I packed a bag and drove.


---

Cold Pine Ridge was colder than I remembered. The trees looked like crooked arms reaching toward a gray sky. The cabin stood still and silent, buried in fog. A time capsule from another life.

I unlocked the door.

Dust, cobwebs, and memories greeted me. Her books still lined the shelves. Her favorite sweater was still hanging by the fireplace.

And then I saw the photo.

It had fallen from the mantle. Me and Maya, smiling. But someone had scratched out her face. Deep gouges where her eyes had been.

I stepped back.

Then I heard it.

A faint voice.

From the back room.

“Maya?”

No answer. Just a soft humming. Familiar. Like the song she used to sing while painting. My feet moved before I could stop them.

The door creaked open.

The room was dark. But the humming stopped.

Then, a whisper:
"You came."

A shadow moved in the corner.

I flicked on my flashlight.

Nothing.

Only her old easel, a cracked mirror, and an open journal. I picked it up. Maya’s handwriting. But the last entry was recent. Dated two days ago.

> "If Liam comes… maybe he can break the loop. I see him in the mirror. I see him in my sleep. But it’s not really him. He wears his face, but the eyes are wrong. The eyes are always wrong."



A crash behind me.

The mirror had fallen, face down.

I bent to pick it up.

And in the reflection—she was standing behind me.

Maya.

But her skin was pale and cracked like porcelain. Her eyes… black. Bottomless.

I turned.

Nothing.

The room was empty again.

I ran outside, heart jackhammering in my chest, breath fogging the air.

That night, I camped in the car.

Sleep came in broken gasps.

At 3:17 a.m., the car radio turned on by itself.

Static again. Then her voice.

"I’m trapped, Liam. You saw it. You have to burn the cabin. Bury the mirror. It’s a door. He comes through the mirror."

Then a man’s voice.

Mocking. Deep.

"She lied to you once, didn’t she? Want to know the truth? She never died in that crash. You buried the wrong body."


---

The next morning, I did what she asked.

I smashed the mirror. Poured gasoline around the cabin. Lit a match.

As the flames roared, I swear I heard screaming from inside. Not one voice. Many.

I drove away without looking back.


---

Three Weeks Later

I got a package. No return address.

Inside: a USB drive and a note in Maya’s handwriting.

> "Some truths are worse than lies. Don’t open it unless you're ready."



I hesitated for hours.

But I plugged it in.

It was security footage. From the crash site.

A different angle.

I watched in silence as the car swerved.

As it flipped.

As I crawled out.

And pulled someone else into the driver's seat.

A girl.

Unconscious.

Maya.

I stepped back from the screen, stomach churning.

I lied.
To the police.
To everyone.
To myself.

I wasn’t a grieving fiancé.

I was a murderer.

And she was trying to save me… even now.

Even after everything.

Even from the thing in the mirror.


---

End.