The Last Voicemail

The Last Voicemail

It was a cold October evening when the phone rang. I was curled up on the couch with a blanket over my shoulders, scrolling through photos of my brother, Sami, who had been missing for over a month. The police had done their job—or at least claimed they had—but the search had gone cold. No leads. No clues. Just an empty car found near the edge of Bear Ridge Forest and a few footprints in the mud that led nowhere. My parents were destroyed, barely functioning. And I—well, I still believed he was alive. I didn’t know how. I just did.

That night, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. I nearly ignored it—most of the calls these days were from reporters or fake psychics offering “answers.” But something told me to pick it up. I swiped to answer, but it disconnected immediately. Seconds later, a voicemail notification popped up. I played it on speaker, already assuming it was just static or background noise. But then I heard it.

First came the static—heavy, crackling, almost electric. Then, faintly, came the sound of labored breathing, like someone running. A few seconds passed. Then his voice.

“Zoya…” he whispered. My name. “Don’t trust them.”

I dropped the phone.

I didn’t even realize I was shaking until I tried to pick it up again. My hands trembled, and my heart pounded so hard it echoed in my ears. It was Sami. I knew his voice like I knew my own reflection. It was hoarse and weak, but it was him.

I replayed the voicemail over and over, trying to catch any other sounds. A distant wind, something that sounded like metal scraping, a short cough. And then it cut off. No goodbye. No explanation. Just static and a warning: Don’t trust them.

I called the number back, of course. It went straight to a disconnected message. The phone number didn’t trace to any service provider I could find. I recorded the voicemail, backed it up, and took it to the police the next morning. They listened carefully, but I could tell they thought I was grasping at ghosts. One officer—Detective Lang—tried to be kind.

“Sometimes grief plays tricks,” he said softly. “You miss someone so much, your mind finds ways to hear them again.”

“No,” I snapped. “That’s his voice. That’s Sami.”

He nodded, but I saw it in his eyes. Pity.

The next few days were worse than any before. I stopped sleeping. I kept replaying his words. Don’t trust them. Who? The police? His friends? My own family? Paranoia crept in like a fog, thick and choking. I started checking windows, locking doors twice, listening to every creak and whisper in the house.

That Sunday, I visited the last place Sami had been seen—Bear Ridge Forest. I parked where they’d found his car, now long towed, and walked the trail with his voice playing in my earbuds. I wanted to feel close to him. I wanted a sign.

About twenty minutes into the hike, I noticed something strange. The air felt colder, heavier. The birdsong had stopped. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. That’s when I saw it.

There was a path to the left—narrow, overgrown, nearly invisible. It wasn’t part of the official trails. I hesitated, but my feet moved on their own. As if drawn.

I walked for maybe fifteen minutes before I found it: an old shed, rotting and half-sunken into the earth. The door was padlocked. I should’ve turned back. But something about it pulled me forward. I reached for the lock—and that’s when I heard it.

Breathing.

Not mine. Not an animal. Human.

“Hello?” I called.

No answer. But the breathing stopped.

I backed away slowly, turned, and walked fast—then ran. I didn’t stop until I reached the parking lot. My lungs burned, but I didn’t look back. I got in my car and drove home, barely remembering the turns.

That night, there was another voicemail.

Same number. Same static.

But this time, there were no words. Just a slow, deep humming. And then, for half a second, a scream—cut off so fast it made my blood run cold.

I played it for my parents. My mother cried. My father stared at the wall, as if seeing something I couldn’t. I didn’t go to the police this time. I knew what they’d say. And truthfully, I no longer trusted them. Maybe Sami had tried to report something. Maybe someone didn’t want him to.

I started digging.

I found forums—dark, hidden corners of the internet—where people spoke of others who had gone missing in the same area. Hikers. Campers. None were ever found. Some mentioned “the watchers”—a group rumored to live in the forest, hunting those who got too close. Most dismissed it as myth. But too many posts said the same thing: strange breathing, old structures, and unexplained voicemails from missing people.

It was a conspiracy no one wanted to believe.

A week later, I returned to the forest—with two friends and a camera. We reached the shed again. This time, the lock was gone.

We entered.

Inside, it was dark, moldy, but clearly lived-in. A mattress in the corner. Empty food cans. A tape recorder. And scrawled on the wall in black ink: “Don’t trust them.”

Suddenly, my phone buzzed. A new voicemail. I didn’t even hear the call.

With shaking fingers, I hit play.

“Zoya… they’re here.”

Sami’s voice again. Breathing. Then a loud crash. And the sound of footsteps running.

Then silence.

My friends and I bolted. This time, we went straight to a local journalist who had covered missing persons. We gave her everything—voicemails, photos, recordings. She promised to investigate.

Two days later, she vanished.

No one ever found her car. Or her phone.

It’s been three months now. I still get voicemails—always from unknown numbers. Sometimes they’re just static. Other times, I hear Sami whispering things I can’t make out. Every message makes me feel closer—and more terrified.

I don’t know who “they” are. I don’t know if Sami is alive or something else. But I know this:

He’s not the only one.

And if you ever hear a voice on your phone, calling your name from the shadows—

Don’t answer.