dArK

The calls don’t stop after death. I hadn’t checked my voicemail in weeks. Who still leaves voicemails in 2025? It started the night after my grandfather’s funeral. I got a notification—one new voicemail—from his number. I froze. The same number we buried with him. His phone had been placed in his suit pocket. Off. Disconnected. Dead. I played it. It was just static. A low hiss. Then, faint breathing. Slow, raspy, like it was coming from deep underground. No words. Just… breath. I deleted it. Blamed it on a glitch. Maybe an old scheduled message. But the next night, it happened again. Same number. New voicemail. This time, I heard him whisper my name. Once. Slowly. Dragged out. Then silence. I didn’t sleep. By the third night, I stopped checking. But they didn’t stop coming. Each message grew longer. Louder. His voice didn’t sound like him anymore. It was warbled, cracked, as if he was speaking through water—or worse, through earth. I blocked the number. It didn’t matter. The voicemails started coming from my number. As if I was leaving messages for myself. I’d check them and hear his voice—closer, more urgent. Begging me to “let him out.” To “stop the dirt.” Once, I swear, I heard knocking through the speaker. I went back to the cemetery. His grave was untouched. But when I stood there, my phone rang again. No number. Just the word: LISTEN. I answered. All I heard was screaming. Not just his. Other voices. Twisted. Endless. It didn’t stop until I smashed the phone against the headstone. No more calls. But that night, my landline rang. I didn’t even know it worked.