Dead Ringer

Whatever you do. Do NOT answer the call.

The warm winds of the fading summer blew the strands of hair across my face as I sat on my doorstep watching the leaves tumble across the dried grass in my yard. I watched as the children rode their bikes in the street. Their mothers stood by on the curb with their arms crossed, armed and ready for whoever fell and scraped their knee first.

I remember when I was one of those kids.

My mother flinched whenever I rode too fast or a car turned onto our street. She probably would’ve wrapped me in bubble wrap if I’d let her. I never did.

My father was the one who taught me how to drive just a few years before esophageal cancer took him to his early grave; the alcoholics disease, some call it. We held up strong, my mom and I, for several years. Long enough to push me through the rest of high school and college. My mother cried when she watched me cross that stage, collecting my diploma. We both wished Dad were there to see it. It was only a few months later that her heart finally gave out and she joined Dad in the palace in the sky.

That’s how I inherited my childhood home. And how I get to sit here watching the neighborhood kids recreate my old memories, like it’s the film about my life. I only hope their story won’t end the same as mine.

I lost track of how long I sat on my stoop until the fading sun reminded me. It had been a few hours at least. Time just seemed to move differently now without my parents.

I learned to live without my dad around. Changed my own flat tire once, replaced all lightbulbs around the house with mom; typical dad stuff, we figured it out. I think I was only strong, because she was so strong.

Then, she was gone, too. And I no longer knew how to be strong anymore.

I sniffled as the chilling breeze brought the darkness and the twinkle of the stars just barely speckled the orange and blush sky. I wrapped my flannel tight around my shoulders as I stood and turned to head inside. The screen door squealed and moaned as I stepped in the quiet home.

I shimmied, adjusting to the warmth inside. I flicked on a few light switches when something caught my attention.

Buzz, buzz.

I surveyed the room. Buzz-

It stopped.

I searched the house. Where did I leave that damn phone?

The last room I checked, Dad’s old study. That’s where I found it. Only I don’t go in this room anymore. Ever. I shrugged it off in case I happened to put it down while cleaning or something. If I went in there, I chose not to recall.

The screen illuminated my face, reading it faster than I could read the words - unlocked.

I had a voicemail from whoever just called. That wouldn’t be too weird, except, no one really calls me anymore. After several months of condolence calls, and people inviting me to bars I’d never show up to, they all stopped trying.

So, when I opened my call log and saw a number that wasn’t saved, I shouldn’t have really thought much more than it being some kind of marketing or scam call.

Except, I did know the number.

I’d know that collection of ten digits anywhere in the world, because I’ve had it memorized since I was old enough to retain memory - Mom’s phone number.

“Hi Honey, it’s Mom. It’s dark out, when will you be home?-” The recording scratches and pops as it cuts off.

For a moment I’m too stunned to do anything. I listen again. Then again. Hearing her voice over and over again. It felt like a breath of fresh air.

I’ll be home soon.

A single tear escapes, rolling down my cheek. The recording was dated 10 years ago. I must’ve been in high school then. Why did it show up now? I wasn’t sure, but I also didn’t care. I’d listened to her voicemail recording over and over after she died. I’d call every second of every day, listen to her voice, then hang up and do it again. Anything to feel a sense of her living again.

Only one thing lingered in my mind as I was washing my face for bed that night. I swear I heard my phone ringing.

If only an old voicemail from years ago came through… then who called?

I slept on the thought. I stared at the dark ceiling in bed, pondering whether I did hear the phone ring or if the sound of the dryer tumbling or dishwasher spinning made up the low hum instead.

When I awoke and the sunlight sparkled through the curtains, I felt this overwhelming heaviness, like a stack of bricks were laid across my chest in my slumber. My subconscious was building a wall, but I was sure what it was blocking out.

I reached over for my phone on the nightstand. The screen was flooded with notifications.

Missed call.

Missed call.

New voicemail.

New voicemail.

Missed call.

New voicemail.

All from the same number, my late mothers’.

Now I began to think this must’ve been a prank from whoever inherited her phone number after the line was disconnected. Who would do something this sick?

Click. The screen unlocked and I went straight to the voicemail to hear her voice.

“Hi Honey, it’s Mom. Call me back, yeah?”

“Hi Honey, Mom again. Why aren’t you answering? I’m getting impatient.”

“CALL ME BACK YOU LITTLE-” Static crackled, then the screen went black. Her voice sounded deeper, crunchier - that was not my mother. I was so startled the phone slipped from my hands, landing on the rug.

It started ringing. I watched it go to voicemail.

It started ringing again, and again, and again.

My heart hammered in my chest, sweat started to drip down my back. I searched the room, looking for something to help, I don’t even know what. Then I noticed how dark it felt, I was lightheaded - was I passing out?

I looked out the window.

Pitch black.

How is this possible? I just woke up. It’s supposed to be morning.

It felt like the darkness was swallowing me. Suffocating me.

Then, snap.

Somewhere outside a bird was whistling his morning tune. A car door slams and an engine hums. And the world went on spinning.

Who’s left to miss me when I’m gone?

Who will answer my call?

---

If something in this piece found you - come linger in our shadows.

And make sure to bring a friend. never travel alone at night.