The Unexpected Voicemail

A short story

Claire woke to the smell of rain and a faint burning odor — like singed plastic. Her head throbbed. Her mouth was dry. The living room around her looked… familiar, but wrong. Too quiet. The light too still.

She sat up on the couch and winced. A deep ache curled behind her eyes.

Bits of last night came in waves:

Laughter at the bar.

A glass too many.

Getting into her car.

Headlights —

Screeching tires —

Then nothing.

She grabbed her phone from the coffee table. No missed calls. Just a blinking red dot on the voicemail icon.

She pressed play.

“Claire… Where are you? They said you were on your way home. Call me, okay?”

— Eli.

She exhaled. He must be worried sick.

She tapped out a message: “Hey, I’m fine. Just woke up. Call me when you get this?”

The text failed to send.

No signal.

…

After sometimes, Claire noticed strange things.

The faucet water ran cold — then suddenly warm — then stopped altogether.

The mirror in the hallway was… dim, as if her reflection avoided her eyes.

And outside the window, it rained — but the sound didn’t match. It was off. Slowed. Artificial.

She dialed Eli again. Straight to voicemail.

“Hey… I don’t know what’s going on, but I feel weird. My head’s all messed up. I don’t remember what happen last night. But I woke up here, so I guess I’m okay? Anyway. Call me.”

Time passed strangely. The kitchen clock stopped at 11:47. Her watch said 3:18. Outside, the sky never brightened.

When she opened the front door, there was nothing — just white fog stretching endlessly forward.

She shut it fast.

…

She kept leaving messages. They became like prayers.

“Eli, I keep seeing… flashes. Like glass breaking. Something on fire.”

“Was I in the hospital? Was I asleep?”

“There’s a noise in the walls. A crackling. Like static on old tape.”

She never got a reply. But she kept talking.

“Remember that camping trip? When we got caught in the rain and you made that awful fire and swore it was gourmet cooking?”

“I never told you… the real reason I got so distant after the miscarriage. I blamed myself. I didn’t know how to grieve with you. I’m sorry.”

And still, silence.

Until, the voicemail folder showed one new recording — from Eli.

Her fingers trembled as she pressed play.

“Claire… they told me you didn’t make it. But I don’t believe it. I still feel you. Sometimes I hear your voice on my phone. Tell me I’m not crazy. Please.”

Her chest tightened.

…

The apartment began to flicker.

One moment: whole, warm, soft couch beneath her.

The next: walls blackened with soot. Floorboards cracked. Blood on the tiles near the door.

And through it all, the faint buzz of her phone.

She stood before the mirror again. This time, she saw her face clearly — bruised. Blood at the corner of her lip. Eyes too wide, too hollow.

Suddenly, memory struck like lightning.

The curve in the road.

The deer.

The swerve.

The impact.

The glass, exploding in white stars.

She sank to her knees.

“I didn’t survive,” she whispered.

…

She sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, the phone cradled in trembling hands. The air around her shimmered like heat above asphalt. Her time — whatever this was — was unraveling.

She stared at the screen one last time.

Recording…

“Eli… It’s me.”

“I don’t know how this is happening. Maybe I’m a ghost, maybe I’m just memory… but I know I don’t have long.”

She wiped her eyes and tried to steady her breath.

“I need you to hear this. Really hear it.”

“I love you. Not the way people say it when they’re happy. I love you with all the cracks and bruises and broken pieces I never let you see. I loved you when I rolled over in bed and pretended to be asleep, just to feel your breath on my shoulder. I loved you when I screamed at you for no reason because I was terrified of how safe you made me feel.”

“I wish I’d listened more. I wish I’d slowed down that night. I was so sure I was fine — so proud, so stupid. You called me before I left. I remember now. You asked me to take a cab. And I ignored you. God, Eli, I ignored you.”

Her voice cracked, raw with guilt.

“I’m so sorry. For every second I wasted not holding your face in my hands and telling you how lucky I was. You were my home, Eli. You are.”

She pressed her hand to her chest. The apartment faded around her — just pale light now, like mist.

“Please don’t let this be what holds you back. Live the loud, messy, beautiful life we were supposed to. Laugh for both of us. Dance badly in the kitchen. Find someone who reminds you what hope feels like. And let them in.”

A tear rolled down her cheek.

“But never forget that I loved you until my very last breath. And I love you still, even now.”

“Goodbye, my heart. Goodbye, my home.”

Click.

Message sent.

…