Voicemail

“Hey, it’s me. Just checking in. Call me back.”

Beep.

Darren stared at his phone. The voicemail was from Megan.

Megan, who’d died six months ago.

He sat motionless in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly deafening.

He played the message again.

“Hey, it’s me. Just checking in. Call me back.”

The timestamp was from 3:17 a.m.

His hands trembled. Megan’s voice was unmistakable—soft, calm, with that little uptick at the end like she always used when she was pretending everything was fine.

He called the number.

It rang once, then disconnected.

His chest tightened. This had to be a glitch. Or someone’s sick joke.

He called again.

Voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Megan! Leave a message!”

He dropped the phone.

No. Her voicemail had been deactivated. He remembered. He’d been the one who helped her parents shut it down.

Beep.

New message.

“Why aren’t you answering?” Megan’s voice again. “I’m cold. Darren, it’s cold down here.”

He backed away from the phone like it might bite him.

Then it rang.

He nearly screamed.

The caller ID said: MEGAN (MOBILE)

He let it ring. On the sixth ring, it stopped.

Another voicemail.

“You left me,” she said. Her voice was slower now. Wet. Like she was speaking through water.

“I didn’t,” he whispered aloud. “I didn’t leave you, I—”

The phone rang again.

He answered.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then breathing. Wet, ragged, close.

“Megan?”

The line crackled.

“You let me drown.”

“No!” His voice cracked. “I tried! I tried to save you!”

“You didn’t jump in.”

He collapsed into the chair, shaking. “I froze. I panicked. I couldn’t move—”

Beep.

New message.

This time, it was just noise. The sound of rushing water. Then a voice—not Megan’s.

“Would you like to leave a message?” it asked.

It didn’t sound human.

The lights flickered.

Another message appeared.

Voicemail (0:00)

He hit play.

No sound.

Just silence.

Then, from the hallway, he heard her voice—not from the phone—from inside the house.

“I left you messages.”

Darren stood, slowly turning.

Water dripped from the ceiling.

A shape stood at the end of the hall. Hair matted. Clothes clinging wet to pale skin.

“Megan,” he whispered.

She lifted her head.

“You never called back.”

The hallway lights blinked and died.

Darkness.

Beep.

One last voicemail.

From his own number.

“Hey. It’s me. Just checking in… Call me back.”