The Last Voicemail

It was 3:47 a.m. on a Tuesday. March 4th. Karen got a voicemail.

From her number.

She woke to her phone lighting up her bedroom. There was no alert. No ringing or anything to notify her. Just when she picked it up, it displayed one message.

Voicemail. 1 new.

Her number. It wasn't a similar number or anything. Her number. She had had that number since she first got a phone. Eleven years. She took a picture of it. Checked her number. It was still the same.

Spoofing. Maybe a file that glitched. Something to do with the carrier. She kept thinking of things that could happen that were believable. Because she didn't want to think about what else it could be. Her phone powered down. She woke it back up and pressed play.

Nothing at first. It sounded like static but not really. It's what you hear when a phone line is picked up but nobody is talking on the other end.

Breathing. Quick. Scared. There was a dragging sound. Like a body being dragged on a wooden floor.

"Karen?"

It was her. Not her saying something that she may have said in the past. It was her voice.

She almost hung up. Why would she hang up on herself? She figured it was better to hang up on a stranger than herself. She just picked up the nearest notepad.

"Karen, you need to write this down."

She did.

"March 14th. Drive home from work via Route 9. Do not take the shortcut. Under any circumstances, do not cross the Old Mill Bridge."

She was writing with shaky hands.

"There will be ice on the highway. They will claim that the bridge broke due to ice on the roads. That the driver lost control."

The breathing got heavier.

"The bridge will be fine, Karen. There won't be any ice on it."

Something hit something. Over and over. Wood hitting metal. Wood hit-

Loud crash. Her voice screaming and nothing after. It went silent, then she heard her voice again. Faintly.

"Did you write that down?"

"Who is this?" Karen asked.

Long silence.

"It's me."

She threw her phone on the ground. Grabbed it and replayed the message. Same thing. Breathing. Crash. And her scared voice.

She looked at her notepad. The words were hers but the handwriting wasn't. It was kind of crooked. As if someone else's hand was holding the pen.

There was no call on her record. Her phone carrier said the message was there but no call was logged to her account. All articles that she found on this topic ended with the person not getting a reply. She deleted the message. Deleted her screenshot and turned on all the lights in her apartment. Didn't sleep till sunrise.

Spent the rest of the day convincing herself it was some type of prank. She almost forgot about it by the end of the week.

Almost.

She would check her phone every night before bed. Make sure she wasn't due to get a message yet. March 5th, 6th, 7th. Nothing happened. Her job was busy. People talked about how the weather was getting worse. She got into an argument with a delivery man over her package being at the wrong door. Everything was normal. She started to feel silly. She had trusted herself for eleven years. She wasn't going to become that girl who's afraid of her phone.

On March 13th she went to sleep without checking her phone. Dreamt about a car falling through a bridge into black water. Someone banging on a window from inside the car. She woke up before she saw their face.

It was cold out Friday the 14th. There was a slight amount of frost on all the cars parked near her. Forecast said no ice on the roads or anything. Barely thought about the voicemail while she was at work. Meeting went long. Had to fix some stuff for her boss. Wasted half her day on a spreadsheet that was acting up.

Turned off her computer at 5:58.

She usually drove home on the shortcut, which took her about twenty minutes. Route 9 took almost an hour. She'd crossed that bridge countless times. It was old. She knew that. The planks groaned when big rigs passed over and the railings were rusted out. But nothing ever happened on that bridge.

She got to the intersection at 6:11. The shortcut was on her right. Route 9 was straight.

She slowed down and almost laughed at herself. She'd been trying to convince herself for days that this was a hoax. Now she was afraid of taking her own shortcut.

She put her signal on.

Her phone lit up on her passenger seat. No alert. It just woke up. March 14th, and below it a message that wasn't there before.

DO NOT CROSS THE BRIDGE.

She slammed on her brakes. Car behind her honked. Pulled over to the side of the road. Grabbed her phone. It was gone.

She looked at her shortcut. Could see the bridge from where she was sitting. Nothing looked off. Dry roads. Water was reflecting the last bit of sunlight. She didn't know what looked wrong about it, but something did. She just didn't want to go towards it.

Took Route 9.

Told herself for thirty minutes that she took the longer route because she was tired. She got to a point where she could see the bridge over the hill.

There was a car driving towards it. Headlights hitting the bridge. Looked like there was ice on it. Even though it was freezing and dry out. She slowed down.

Car crossed the bridge. Past one beam. Two. Stopped in the middle of the bridge.

Nothing happened for a second. Then she heard it. She'd never forget that sound. A loud crack. Something snapped and flew through the air. The bridge caved in the middle. Threw the car to the side. It looked like it got sucked into the water. Splashed and the back lights flashed underwater. Then it was gone. The noise was quieter than she expected. Muffled thud. Nothing after.

She called 911. Hands shaking so bad she could barely use her phone. Gave them the location and what vehicle. They told her help was on the way. She hung up when it said 6:47 on her dashboard.

There was no ice.

Her phone rang.

It was her number.

She didn't pick up. It kept ringing. On the eleventh ring it stopped.

Voicemail. 1 new.

She wanted to throw her phone in the river and drive home and forget all of this ever happened. But she had warned her about the bridge. What if she had something else to warn her about? Pressed play.

"Karen?"

Hers again.

"I hope you listened. I know about the bridge. I know you took Route 9. You did the right thing." Long pause. "Now write this down."

Grabbed her notepad.

"March 21st. You'll be at your apartment. It will be late. You will hear someone knocking on your door."

Faint sound of knocking.

"Do not open your door. No matter what you hear. They will sound like someone you know. Will tell you that they're hurt. That they need your help." The breathing became erratic. "Don't listen to them."

She wrote everything down. Her voice started crying in the recording.

"Please. I'm begging you. Don't open your door."

Another voice. Quiet.

"Karen?"

Crying stopped.

"No."

"Karen, it's me." Voice got closer. "Open the door."

Recording ended.

March 21st. Apartment. Do not open the door. The handwriting was crooked again. This time she watched herself write it.

She took the longest way home she could find. Double-checked her locks. Closed all her curtains. Put a chair under her doorknob and felt stupid. Removed it. Didn't leave her apartment for a week at night. Would buy food during the day and ignore any unknown numbers. Never listened to her voicemail again if she didn't know who it was from.

Called her phone company on the 20th. Explained the situation minus the fact that it was her voice. She looked into her account. Said there was no record of a call coming into her phone at 3:47 a.m. on March 4th. Or on the 14th.

"Maybe the message was automatically generated?" she asked.

"That wouldn't come from your own number, ma'am."

"Could someone have spoofed my number?"

"That could be possible. But there is no way for us to know."

She thanked her and sat down at her table. Flipped through her notepad. Read through the dates and messages. At the bottom of the first page was a sentence she didn't remember writing. Crooked handwriting. Fresh ink.

You only have to live till the next voicemail.

Flipped through the rest of the pages. Nothing. Put her notepad in a drawer and tried not to think about it.

The 21st came and went. Got food at 8:30. Watched TV at 9:15. Checked her locks at 10. Turned off her TV at 11:30 and went to bed. Felt relieved. Maybe these voicemails were done. Maybe the bridge was just a horrible coincidence and she made it out to be something it wasn't.

11:57 p.m. her phone lit up.

Voicemail. 1 new.

She didn't hear it come in. From her number. Pressed play.

Breathing. Then her voice.

"Karen. If you're hearing this, it has already begun. I need you to know that these voicemails were not to save you."

Knocking. Three times.

She heard her door.

Her voice continued. "I tried to prevent this from happening. I did everything I could. Every time something changed, it found another way." Knocking got louder. "Do not open your door. Do not talk to it. Do not let it know you're awake."

A voice she knew was on the other side of her door.

"Karen, baby? It's me."

Her mom had been dead for six years.

"Please open the door." She said. "It's cold out."

She backed away. "Don't listen to her." Her voice was whispering. "That's not your mom."

She heard the knob on her door turn. Left. Right. She had her deadbolt on. It stopped turning. The silence was deafening.

"Karen?"

She turned around. Nobody was in her room. Her phone crackled. Her voice was sobbing. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't stop it."

Something was standing in her hallway.

She couldn't see its face. There was a darkness surrounding it. Swallowing up the lights from her kitchen. It was tall. Slim. Its head tilted to the side.

It spoke with her voice.

"Did you write that down?"

Her phone cut out.

It walked towards her. She backed into her nightstand. Her notepad fell open to a blank page. A pen slid across the floor and stopped next to her foot.

"Karen." It said softly. "You need to write this down."

She shook her head. It smiled. She could tell it was smiling.

"March 25th. You will get a voicemail at 3:47 a.m."

"No."

"You will hear my voice."

"No."

"And you will listen to what I have to say."

She tried to scream. No sound came out of her mouth. Her last thought was her voice whispering to her.

"Don't worry, Karen. I'll help you listen."

3:47 a.m. on a Tuesday. March 25th. A phone started ringing.

A woman woke up to it. It was her number. There was a notepad on her nightstand. One she didn't remember buying. At the top of the page was:

You only have to live till the next voicemail.

She picked up.

Just breathing. Then a scared voice said:

"You need to write this down."

Somewhere in the darkness, she started knocking.