It was nearly midnight when Lydia first heard the whisper. The phone, a relic from her failed marriage, had been gathering dust on the nightstand for months. She didn't even remember keeping it plugged in, but there it was, glowing softly in the dim light of her bedroom. The number flashing on the screen was blocked, an unfamiliar string of numbers she didn't recognize.
For a moment, she hesitated. She had learned to ignore the small things since her divorce from Trevor—small things like phantom phone calls or sudden shivers crawling up her spine. But the phone rang again, a shrill, insistent tone that seemed to worm its way into her skull.
Lydia picked it up, pressing the phone against her ear. "Hello?"
Static. Then, faintly, came a voice she hadn't heard in years.
"Lydia, come back to me."
She froze. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart pounded against her ribs like a fist trying to break free. The voice—deep, familiar, and laced with that same smug undertone she used to hate—was unmistakable. It was Trevor.
"Trevor? Is this some kind of joke?" she whispered, her fingers tightening around the phone.
The voice on the other end chuckled, low and sinister. "Not a joke. I've been waiting for you."
She hung up. Hands trembling, she sat there staring at the phone, willing it not to ring again. But her thoughts betrayed her. Trevor couldn't have called her. Trevor was dead—had been for six months.
The next morning, Lydia decided it had to be a prank. Maybe someone was screwing with her. Someone who knew about Trevor's death, someone with a sick sense of humor. But by the time night fell again, the uneasy feeling had returned, clawing at her insides like a parasite.
She avoided her bedroom that night, opting to crash on the couch instead. Sleep came in uneasy waves, and she dreamed of Trevor each time she drifted off. Not the charming man she had married, but the man he had become before the divorce: cold, cruel, and distant. And in her dreams, he always smiled.
The phone rang again.
Lydia jolted awake, gasping, and snatched the receiver. "Who the hell is this?"
"I told you. It's Trevor," came the reply. "I'm waiting."
"For what?!" she screamed into the receiver, but there was no response. Only static.
Unable to ignore the dread twisting in her gut, Lydia made the drive to their old house—the house she hadn't stepped foot in since the day she found him. She had left it just the way it was, unable to deal with the memories that clung to every corner like cobwebs.
The front door creaked as she stepped inside, the familiar scent of wood polish and whiskey hitting her like a slap. She stopped in her tracks when she reached the living room. Trevor's body was exactly where she had left it—slumped on the couch, pale and lifeless, the dried stain of blood on his chest like a grotesque flower blooming on his shirt.
But when she turned around, Trevor was standing behind her.
"Miss me?" he whispered, his lips curling into that same smile that had haunted her dreams.
Lydia screamed, stumbling backward. Her eyes darted between the corpse on the couch and the man standing in front of her. He was alive. No. He couldn't be.
"You… you're dead!" she stammered.
Trevor tilted his head, his smile widening into something inhuman. "Am I?"
Lydia backed away, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "Stay away from me," she said, her voice trembling.
Trevor stepped closer, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. His presence filled the room, oppressive and cold. "You should've answered sooner, Lydia. You could've saved yourself some trouble."
Her eyes darted to the phone in her hand. It was still glowing, the screen flashing with the same blocked number. The static buzzed in her ears, growing louder and louder until it was all she could hear.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, tears streaming down her face.
Trevor chuckled, a guttural sound that sent shivers down her spine. "You always thought you could run from me, didn't you? But I never left. I've been here all along, watching you."
"No… no, you're lying," Lydia said, shaking her head violently.
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch her face. It was ice cold, the touch of death itself. "You knew, deep down. You always knew."
The memories came rushing back, unbidden and vivid. The night she found Trevor, the way she had stood over him with the knife in her hand, the way his blood had soaked into the carpet. She had told herself it was self-defense, that he had been drunk and angry, that she had no choice. But the truth was far darker.
"I killed you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Trevor smiled, his dead eyes locking onto hers. "You did."
The room seemed to collapse in on itself, the walls closing in until all she could see was his face. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. The phone slipped from her hand, and the static grew deafening.
When the police found her the next morning, Lydia was slumped on the couch, her eyes wide open and lifeless. In her lap was the phone, its screen cracked but still glowing. The number on the screen was blocked.
The coroner noted the cause of death as a heart attack, but the look of terror etched onto her face told a different story. Somewhere in the static of the phone, a faint voice whispered:
"Come back to me."
The End