My husband, Mark, died in a car accident just three weeks after our daughter, Susie, was born. He never got to see her crawl, never heard her first word, and never got to walk her into her first day of kindergarten. For eighteen years, it had just been the two of us. We were a closed circuit, a tiny world of two.
But lately, that world felt like it was being haunted—not by a spirit, but by a secret.
It started with the landline. We kept it mostly for emergencies and because the signal in our valley was spotty. One Tuesday evening, as I walked past the hallway to the kitchen, I heard Susie’s voice. It was low, a jagged whisper that sounded like it was being pulled out of her.
“Okay, Dad, I miss you too.”
I stopped cold. The air in the hallway felt like it had suddenly turned to liquid. I watched her through the cracked door. She was clutching the receiver so hard her knuckles were white. When she noticed me, she didn’t just hang up; she slammed the phone down.
“Who were you talking to?” I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“No one. Wrong number,” she said. She didn’t look at me. She brushed past me, smelling faintly of old paper and cold air, and locked herself in her room.
I couldn’t sleep. The silence of the house felt heavy, like it was waiting for me to do something. Around 2:00 AM, I crept into the hallway and picked up the receiver. I pressed the button to view the call log.
The number Susie had dialed was ten digits long, with an area code I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Mark’s old cell number—that had been disconnected for nearly two decades. My fingers trembled as I hit redial.
Ring… Ring… Ring…
A click. Then, silence. No greeting, no “hello.” Just the sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing. It sounded wet, like someone struggling for air through a closed throat.
Then, a voice came through. It was raspy, distorted by static, but it carried a cadence that made my skin crawl.
“Susie? I told you not to let her hear.”
I dropped the phone. It dangled by the cord, swinging against the wall like a pendulum. That wasn’t just a voice. It was his voice. Or a perfect, terrifying imitation of it.
The next morning, I didn’t go to work. I waited for Susie to leave for her college classes, then I went into her room. I felt like a traitor, but the fear was stronger than the guilt.
In the back of her closet, hidden inside an old shoebox, I found a stack of journals. I opened the most recent one. The pages were filled with transcripts of conversations.
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Oct 12: He told me about the day I was born. He said he remembers the smell of the hospital soap.
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Oct 15: He asked why Mom doesn’t talk about him anymore. He says he’s lonely in the “Quiet Place.”
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Oct 20: He wants to come home. He says if I leave the window unlatched, he can find his way.
My breath hitched. I looked at the window. It was unlatched.
I took the number to a friend of mine who worked for the telecom company. “Can you trace this?” I asked, sliding the paper across the table.
He looked at it, frowned, and typed it into his system. He tried three times before looking up, his face pale. “This isn’t a working number, Sarah. This prefix… it was decommissioned in the late nineties. This number doesn’t exist on any modern grid.”
That night, a storm rolled in. Thunder shook the floorboards. I sat in the living room with a kitchen knife hidden under a pillow, watching the hallway. Susie stayed in her room, the light from under her door the only thing cutting through the dark.
At midnight, the landline rang.
It didn’t ring like a normal phone. It was a long, continuous tone. I picked it up before the first ring could finish.
“Stop it,” I hissed into the receiver. “Mark is dead. I buried him. Who are you?”
The breathing on the other end slowed. “Sarah,” the voice whispered. It was so clear now. It sounded exactly like the man I’d married. “You always were too curious. You’re scaring Susie. Let us talk.”
“Where are you?” I demanded, tears blurring my vision.
“I’m at the window, Sarah. It’s cold out here.”
I looked toward the hallway. Susie’s door opened. She walked toward the front door in a trance, her eyes wide and glassy.
“Susie, no!” I screamed, jumping up.
She didn’t hear me. She reached for the deadbolt. “He’s here, Mom. He said he’s tired of the phone. He wants to see us.”
She threw the door open.
The porch light flickered and died. For a second, there was only the blackness of the storm. Then, a flash of lightning illuminated the porch.
There was no one there.
Just an old, rotary phone sitting on the welcome mat. Its cord ran off the edge of the porch, trailing into the darkness of the woods behind our house.
I grabbed Susie and pulled her back, slamming the door. I grabbed a pair of shears and ran out into the rain. I followed the cord. It didn’t go to a phone jack. It wound through the trees, draped over branches like a long, black snake.
I followed it for a hundred yards until I reached the edge of the old cemetery where Mark was buried. The cord went over the fence. It led straight to his headstone.
There, sitting on the grass above his grave, was a man. He was young—no older than twenty. He was wearing a headset and holding a soundboard. Beside him was a high-powered radio transmitter.
He looked up, startled. “Oh… hey. You’re the mom.”
He wasn’t a ghost. He was a “Grief Scammer”—someone who scours obituaries and uses AI voice-cloning technology to prey on the lonely. He had targeted Susie on social media months ago, posing as a medium who could “connect” her to her father through a “vintage frequency.”
He had been charging her hundreds of dollars from her college savings account for every “call.” He had used old videos I’d posted of Mark to train the AI to mimic his voice perfectly.
The “breathing” I heard? Just a loop of white noise to build tension. The “Quiet Place”? A script designed to keep a grieving girl hooked.
I didn’t call the police immediately. I took the shears and I destroyed his equipment right there in the mud. I made him look at Mark’s headstone and realize he was dancing on a grave.
When I got back to the house, Susie was shaking on the sofa. I held her for hours. We realized that while the voice on the phone was a lie, the hole it filled was real. We had been so busy surviving that we had forgotten to mourn together.
The landline is gone now. We cut the wire. But sometimes, when the house is very quiet and the wind catches the eaves, I think I hear a faint ringing. I don’t answer it. I just go to the kitchen, pour two cups of tea, and talk to my daughter about her father—the real one.
