The Last Voicemail
My sister died three years ago on her birthday.
Car accident. Black ice. She was heading to my place for dinner—I'd promised to cook her favorite meal. She called me at 11:32 PM to say she was running late. I told her to forget it, that I was tired anyway, that we'd do it another time.
There wasn't another time.
They pronounced her dead at 11:47 PM.
I didn't go to the hospital. Couldn't face it. Couldn't face her. My parents haven't spoken to me since the funeral. Can't say I blame them.
Year One
The first call came exactly one year later. October 23rd, 11:47 PM.
I was still living in the same apartment, sleeping on the same couch where I'd told her not to come. Her contact photo lit up my screen—that stupid selfie she took at the beach, tongue out, peace signs up.
My hands shook so bad I almost dropped the phone.
It had to be a glitch. Someone had her old number. That's how it works, right? They recycle numbers.
I didn't answer.
It rang for exactly one minute, then stopped. No voicemail.
I didn't sleep that night. Kept staring at my phone, willing it to make sense.
At 3 AM, a text came through.
Emma: "You didn't answer."
I threw my phone across the room.
Year Two
I'd convinced myself it was a sick prank. Some asshole who got her number and saw the news reports. I changed my number. Deleted all my social media. Started seeing a therapist who nodded a lot and suggested EMDR.
I even started dating someone—Rachel. She was patient with my baggage, didn't push when I got quiet.
October 23rd rolled around. Rachel was staying over. We'd just finished watching a movie when my NEW phone—the one only six people had the number to—started ringing.
11:47 PM.
Emma.
Same contact photo. Same name.
"Who's Emma?" Rachel asked.
I couldn't speak. Just stared.
Rachel reached for the phone. "Babe, you're white as a sheet. Want me to—"
"Don't touch it."
But curiosity or concern got the better of her. She answered and put it on speaker.
Static. Heavy, wet breathing. Then:
"Why didn't you come?"
Emma's voice. But wrong. Like a recording played through water.
Rachel's face went pale. "What the fuck—"
The voice cut her off. "WHY DIDN'T YOU COME TO THE HOSPITAL?"
I grabbed the phone and hung up. Rachel left that night. Didn't even pack her toothbrush. Just walked out and never called back.
At 3 AM, the text came.
Emma: "I've been waiting. Check the basement."
I lived in a second-floor apartment. There was no basement.
Year Three: Last Week
I moved across the country. New city, new job, new phone, new life. Went back to therapy. Got on medication. Started running every morning like I could outpace the guilt.
I didn't tell anyone about the calls. What would I even say?
October 23rd. I'd mentally prepared for this. Took the day off work. Turned off my phone at 6 PM. Took a sleeping pill.
I woke up at 11:46 PM.
My phone was on. Sitting on my nightstand, screen glowing.
I know I turned it off. I KNOW I did.
11:47 PM.
It rang.
This time, I answered immediately.
"What do you want?"
Silence. So long I thought the call had dropped. Then:
"Check the basement."
"I don't HAVE a basement, Emma. I don't—"
"Check. YOUR. Basement."
Her voice was clearer now. Angrier.
"I live on the second floor. There IS no basement. This isn't real. You're not—"
"The door is behind your closet. It's always been there."
The line went dead.
I sat there in the dark, heart hammering. This was insane. I'd lived here for four months. I'd unpacked every box, organized every shelf. There was no door in my closet.
My phone buzzed.
Emma: "I've been down here the whole time. Waiting for you to visit."
Another text: "It's not too late. I forgive you. Just come down."
I should've ignored it. Should've thrown the phone out the window.
Instead, I got up.
The closet door creaked as I opened it. Rows of shirts. Boxes of shoes. The back wall was just... a wall. Plain white paint, slightly yellowed.
I pushed the hanging clothes aside.
That's when I saw it.
A seam. Almost invisible, but there—running floor to ceiling. And a small metal handle, painted the same color as the wall, tucked behind my winter coats.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."
My phone buzzed in my hand.
Emma: "Open it."
I touched the handle. It was ice cold.
Every rational part of my brain screamed to stop. To leave. To call someone—anyone.
But three years of guilt is a heavy thing. Three years of not saying goodbye. Three years of knowing the last thing I told my sister was that I was too tired to see her.
I pulled the handle.
The door swung open silently, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The air that wafted up was wrong—stale and damp and somehow old, like it had been sealed for decades.
Emma: "Come down. I'm waiting at the bottom."
I turned on my phone's flashlight. The stairs were concrete, covered in a thin layer of dust. No footprints. The walls were bare earth, held back by rotting wooden beams.
This was impossible. I was on the SECOND FLOOR. There shouldn't be anything below me except Mrs. Chen's apartment.
Emma: "Please. I'm so cold down here."
I started down.
One step. Two. The door behind me didn't close—I made sure of that, wedging a shoe to keep it open.
Five steps. Ten. The temperature dropped with each one. My breath came out in clouds.
Fifteen steps. I should've been at ground level by now. Below it, even.
Twenty steps.
The staircase kept going.
Emma: "Almost here. I can hear you."
Thirty steps. The walls were slick now, moisture running down them. The smell hit me—copper and earth and something rotting.
Forty steps.
My phone buzzed.
Emma: "Stop."
I froze. The flashlight beam shook in my hand.
Ahead, maybe ten feet down, the stairs ended at a small landing. And there, sitting with her back to me, was a figure.
Same jacket Emma wore that night. Same dark hair.
"Emma?" My voice cracked.
The figure didn't turn around.
Emma: "You came. You finally came."
"I'm sorry," I sobbed. "I'm so sorry I didn't come to the hospital. I'm sorry I told you not to come. I'm sorry I—"
"Turn around," she said. Her voice now, clear and real, but still not quite right.
"What?"
"Turn around and look up the stairs."
I did.
The door was gone. Just darkness stretching up into nothing.
My phone buzzed one last time. I looked down at the screen.
Emma: "I never made it to the hospital. I've been here the whole time. In the place people go when no one comes to say goodbye."
Emma: "But you're here now. So I'm not alone anymore."
The figure at the bottom of the stairs finally turned around.
It smiled with my sister's face.
"We have so much time to catch up," it said.
Behind me, I heard footsteps. Descending. Lots of them.
My phone's battery died, and the darkness swallowed everything.
They found my apartment empty three days later. Landlord said I'd skipped town without notice.
Mrs. Chen, who lived below me, complained about scratching sounds coming from her walls.
Sometimes, late at night, she hears voices. Two people talking. One sounds like they're apologizing, over and over.
The other one is laughing.
Car accident. Black ice. She was heading to my place for dinner—I'd promised to cook her favorite meal. She called me at 11:32 PM to say she was running late. I told her to forget it, that I was tired anyway, that we'd do it another time.
There wasn't another time.
They pronounced her dead at 11:47 PM.
I didn't go to the hospital. Couldn't face it. Couldn't face her. My parents haven't spoken to me since the funeral. Can't say I blame them.
Year One
The first call came exactly one year later. October 23rd, 11:47 PM.
I was still living in the same apartment, sleeping on the same couch where I'd told her not to come. Her contact photo lit up my screen—that stupid selfie she took at the beach, tongue out, peace signs up.
My hands shook so bad I almost dropped the phone.
It had to be a glitch. Someone had her old number. That's how it works, right? They recycle numbers.
I didn't answer.
It rang for exactly one minute, then stopped. No voicemail.
I didn't sleep that night. Kept staring at my phone, willing it to make sense.
At 3 AM, a text came through.
Emma: "You didn't answer."
I threw my phone across the room.
Year Two
I'd convinced myself it was a sick prank. Some asshole who got her number and saw the news reports. I changed my number. Deleted all my social media. Started seeing a therapist who nodded a lot and suggested EMDR.
I even started dating someone—Rachel. She was patient with my baggage, didn't push when I got quiet.
October 23rd rolled around. Rachel was staying over. We'd just finished watching a movie when my NEW phone—the one only six people had the number to—started ringing.
11:47 PM.
Emma.
Same contact photo. Same name.
"Who's Emma?" Rachel asked.
I couldn't speak. Just stared.
Rachel reached for the phone. "Babe, you're white as a sheet. Want me to—"
"Don't touch it."
But curiosity or concern got the better of her. She answered and put it on speaker.
Static. Heavy, wet breathing. Then:
"Why didn't you come?"
Emma's voice. But wrong. Like a recording played through water.
Rachel's face went pale. "What the fuck—"
The voice cut her off. "WHY DIDN'T YOU COME TO THE HOSPITAL?"
I grabbed the phone and hung up. Rachel left that night. Didn't even pack her toothbrush. Just walked out and never called back.
At 3 AM, the text came.
Emma: "I've been waiting. Check the basement."
I lived in a second-floor apartment. There was no basement.
Year Three: Last Week
I moved across the country. New city, new job, new phone, new life. Went back to therapy. Got on medication. Started running every morning like I could outpace the guilt.
I didn't tell anyone about the calls. What would I even say?
October 23rd. I'd mentally prepared for this. Took the day off work. Turned off my phone at 6 PM. Took a sleeping pill.
I woke up at 11:46 PM.
My phone was on. Sitting on my nightstand, screen glowing.
I know I turned it off. I KNOW I did.
11:47 PM.
It rang.
This time, I answered immediately.
"What do you want?"
Silence. So long I thought the call had dropped. Then:
"Check the basement."
"I don't HAVE a basement, Emma. I don't—"
"Check. YOUR. Basement."
Her voice was clearer now. Angrier.
"I live on the second floor. There IS no basement. This isn't real. You're not—"
"The door is behind your closet. It's always been there."
The line went dead.
I sat there in the dark, heart hammering. This was insane. I'd lived here for four months. I'd unpacked every box, organized every shelf. There was no door in my closet.
My phone buzzed.
Emma: "I've been down here the whole time. Waiting for you to visit."
Another text: "It's not too late. I forgive you. Just come down."
I should've ignored it. Should've thrown the phone out the window.
Instead, I got up.
The closet door creaked as I opened it. Rows of shirts. Boxes of shoes. The back wall was just... a wall. Plain white paint, slightly yellowed.
I pushed the hanging clothes aside.
That's when I saw it.
A seam. Almost invisible, but there—running floor to ceiling. And a small metal handle, painted the same color as the wall, tucked behind my winter coats.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."
My phone buzzed in my hand.
Emma: "Open it."
I touched the handle. It was ice cold.
Every rational part of my brain screamed to stop. To leave. To call someone—anyone.
But three years of guilt is a heavy thing. Three years of not saying goodbye. Three years of knowing the last thing I told my sister was that I was too tired to see her.
I pulled the handle.
The door swung open silently, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The air that wafted up was wrong—stale and damp and somehow old, like it had been sealed for decades.
Emma: "Come down. I'm waiting at the bottom."
I turned on my phone's flashlight. The stairs were concrete, covered in a thin layer of dust. No footprints. The walls were bare earth, held back by rotting wooden beams.
This was impossible. I was on the SECOND FLOOR. There shouldn't be anything below me except Mrs. Chen's apartment.
Emma: "Please. I'm so cold down here."
I started down.
One step. Two. The door behind me didn't close—I made sure of that, wedging a shoe to keep it open.
Five steps. Ten. The temperature dropped with each one. My breath came out in clouds.
Fifteen steps. I should've been at ground level by now. Below it, even.
Twenty steps.
The staircase kept going.
Emma: "Almost here. I can hear you."
Thirty steps. The walls were slick now, moisture running down them. The smell hit me—copper and earth and something rotting.
Forty steps.
My phone buzzed.
Emma: "Stop."
I froze. The flashlight beam shook in my hand.
Ahead, maybe ten feet down, the stairs ended at a small landing. And there, sitting with her back to me, was a figure.
Same jacket Emma wore that night. Same dark hair.
"Emma?" My voice cracked.
The figure didn't turn around.
Emma: "You came. You finally came."
"I'm sorry," I sobbed. "I'm so sorry I didn't come to the hospital. I'm sorry I told you not to come. I'm sorry I—"
"Turn around," she said. Her voice now, clear and real, but still not quite right.
"What?"
"Turn around and look up the stairs."
I did.
The door was gone. Just darkness stretching up into nothing.
My phone buzzed one last time. I looked down at the screen.
Emma: "I never made it to the hospital. I've been here the whole time. In the place people go when no one comes to say goodbye."
Emma: "But you're here now. So I'm not alone anymore."
The figure at the bottom of the stairs finally turned around.
It smiled with my sister's face.
"We have so much time to catch up," it said.
Behind me, I heard footsteps. Descending. Lots of them.
My phone's battery died, and the darkness swallowed everything.
They found my apartment empty three days later. Landlord said I'd skipped town without notice.
Mrs. Chen, who lived below me, complained about scratching sounds coming from her walls.
Sometimes, late at night, she hears voices. Two people talking. One sounds like they're apologizing, over and over.
The other one is laughing.
