The Phone That Rang After My Sister’s Funeral

The day we buried my sister, the world felt empty. The sun was out, but to me the sky looked gray, heavy, and lifeless. My family and relatives slowly left the graveyard, whispering condolences and brushing away tears. I stayed behind, unable to move.

I stared at the fresh mound of earth covering her coffin. Just three days ago, she had been alive—laughing, singing, teasing me for silly things. How could she be gone so suddenly?

Then my phone buzzed.

At first, I thought it was one of my cousins checking if I was alright. But when I pulled the phone from my pocket, my breath caught in my throat.

It was her number.

Her contact photo lit up the screen. Her name flashed bright and clear. For a second, I thought my mind was playing tricks. But the ringtone echoed in the silent graveyard, sharp and cruel.

I froze, staring at the phone until the call stopped on its own. My heart pounded like it wanted to break free from my chest.

The First Night

That evening, the memory of the call clung to me like a shadow. I kept telling myself it was a technical glitch, maybe her old phone had been recycled or hacked. But in my heart, I knew better.

Around midnight, just as I was about to drift into restless sleep, the phone rang again. Same number. Same ringtone.

This time, I answered.

“Hello…?” My voice shook.

At first, all I heard was static. Then—faint, broken, almost like a whisper—I heard her voice.

“Why… did you leave me?”

The phone slipped from my hand. I stumbled back, my whole body trembling. That voice—it wasn’t a recording. It wasn’t fake. It was hers.

I didn’t sleep that night. Every creak of the house, every flicker of shadow felt alive.

The Calls Continue

Over the next week, the calls grew frequent. Sometimes just heavy breathing. Sometimes whispers I couldn’t understand. But every time, I recognized her voice.

I tried to tell my mother, but she dismissed it as my imagination, grief twisting reality. My friends laughed when I told them. “It’s a scam call,” they said. “Block the number.”

But how could I block my dead sister?

The nightmares began soon after. In them, she appeared in her funeral dress, pale and covered in dirt. She stood at my bedside, her eyes hollow, her lips trembling. She held her phone tightly, its ringtone piercing the silence.

Each time I woke, my phone buzzed with her number.

The Graveyard Visit

On the sixth night, desperate for answers, I went back to her grave. The cemetery was quiet, bathed in a cold, silver moonlight. I stood by her grave and whispered, “If it’s really you… please stop. You’re scaring me.”

Suddenly, the ground beneath my feet felt strangely warm, as if something was alive under the soil. My phone vibrated violently in my pocket. The ringtone filled the air.

I answered with shaking hands.

Her voice was clearer this time. Sad. Accusing.

“You didn’t save me. You let me die.”

I dropped to my knees, tears streaming down my face. “No! I couldn’t stop it… I tried!” I shouted into the night.

But only silence answered back.

The Final Call

On the seventh night, the call came again. But this time, it wasn’t her number. The screen simply said: “Unknown Caller.”

I hesitated, then answered.

“What do you want from me?” I whispered.

A pause. Then a soft giggle—the kind she used to make when she was alive. For a moment, hope flickered in me. Maybe this was her way of saying goodbye.

But then the voice shifted. It grew distorted, layered with something darker.

“You buried me alive.”

The line went dead.

The phone slipped from my hand, shattering on the floor. My chest tightened. My vision blurred. I couldn’t move.

The next morning, when I returned to her grave with my uncle, we both froze. The soil looked disturbed, claw marks visible in the dirt.

Her phone was never found.

Closing Note for Readers:

Do you believe the dead can reach us through the devices we use every day? Or does grief twist reality until we hear voices that shouldn’t exist?