My wife won't stop calling me⌠but I buried her last week.
I always thought grief made people imagine things. I never expected to be one of them.
Last Thursday, I buried my wife. Elena died in a car crashâhead-on collision with a drunk driver. The impact was instant. Closed casket. No goodbyes. Just an empty, unbearable silence.
She was everything to me. The house still smells like her shampoo. Her toothbrush is still wet. Her phone still sits on the kitchen counter, cracked from the accident, untouched since the police returned her belongings.
The first call came two nights ago.
It was 2:17 AM. The screen lit up with âElena.â I stared at it, breathless, frozen in bed.
I let it ring out.
The next morning, I convinced myself it was a glitch. Maybe her phone line hadnât been disconnected. Maybe the contact synced with another number somehow. Logic. I needed logic.
That night, it happened again. Same time. 2:17 AM. Same name.
This time, I answered.
Nothing. Just silence. Not staticâpure, intentional silence. Like someone was holding their breath.
âHello?â I whispered.
I heard a slow, shallow inhale. Then a soft, unmistakable voice:
âWhy did you let me die?â
I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and shattered.
I didnât sleep that night.
I called the carrier in the morning. They said the number was deactivated. No calls had been made from it. Impossible.
I tried calling it. âThis number is no longer in service.â
But the calls kept coming.
Every night at 2:17 AM, Elena calls me. Sometimes she whispers things. Sometimes she cries. Last night, she laughedâguttural, choking, like she was trying to mimic joy but had forgotten how.
I started recording the calls. They never save.
Tonight, Iâm writing this because I donât know what else to do. Iâm losing my mind. I havenât left the house. I donât eat. I barely sleep.
But tonight⌠something changed.
At 2:17 AM, the phone didnât ring.
Instead, the bedroom light turned on by itself.
And the voicemail alert went off.
My hands shook as I pressed play.
âCheck the basement.â
That was it. Her voice. Calm. Stern.
But hereâs the thing: we donât have a basement.
At least, I thought we didnât.
Weâve lived in this house for six years. Itâs a one-level ranch-style. No stairs. No access panels. Nothing.
But something nagged at me. In the garage, behind an old shelf, there was always this odd patch of wallâdifferent texture. Hollow.
I moved the shelf. Behind it was a wooden panel, bolted in.
My stomach dropped.
I pried it open with a crowbar.
Stairs.
Rotten, wooden stairs leading into blackness.
The smell hit me first. Damp earth. Decay. Something old.
I didnât want to go down there. But I couldnât stop myself. I grabbed a flashlight and descended.
The steps creaked under my weight. The air was thick. The walls were lined with⌠photos. Hundreds of them. All of me. Sleeping. Eating. Brushing my teeth.
All taken from strange anglesâlike someone had been inside the walls, watching me for years.
In the center of the room was a table. On it, a phone.
Elenaâs phone.
Charged. Lit up.
It rang.
2:17 AM.
I answered.
This time, her voice was right next to my earânot on the line.
âI told you not to bury me.â
I turned around.
She was standing behind me. Pale. Eyes hollow. Her head was bent at a sickening angle, just like in the crash photos I wish I hadnât seen.
She smiled. Not lovingly. Knowingly.
âI came back⌠and you locked me away.â
I ran.
Iâm upstairs now. Doors locked. But I hear her footsteps beneath the floorboards.
Sheâs not calling anymore.
She doesnât have to.
Sheâs in the house.
If I donât post again, donât call the cops. Donât send help.
Just⌠whatever you do...
Donât answer if your dead wife calls at 2:17 AM.
