The Last Voicemail From My Daughter Arrived After Her Burial

A grieving father receives messages from a future that should not exist.

By Anees Ul Ameen

I buried my daughter on a Thursday.

The sky was too blue for a funeral—offensively blue. The kind that makes grief feel smaller than it should be, like the world has already moved on without permission.

People said time would heal me.

Time didn’t heal anything.

It sharpened the pain until it cut every time I breathed.

Three nights after her burial, my phone vibrated on the nightstand.

Voicemail — Unknown Number

I stared at the screen. Grief does strange things to the mind. Phantom sounds. Imagined voices. I told myself not to listen.

I pressed play anyway.

“Daddy?”

My heart stopped.

It was her voice. Perfect. Soft. The way she said my name when she was scared of thunderstorms.

“I’m cold,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you come get me?”

The message ended.

I screamed so hard my throat burned.

The timestamp made my blood run colder.

Sent: Tomorrow.

I replayed it until my phone died. Every time, her voice sounded closer, heavier, as if she were leaning against the microphone.

By morning, I convinced myself it was a glitch. A sick coincidence.

Then another voicemail arrived.

Voicemail — Unknown Number

Sent: Tomorrow

“I can hear them walking,” she said. “They don’t breathe. They keep telling me to stay quiet.”

My daughter was buried in an old cemetery at the edge of town. Locals avoided it. Nobody explained why.

I chose it because it was peaceful.

I was wrong.

I went there at dusk.

The gates were locked, but desperation makes people brave. I climbed over, shoes sinking into damp soil. The air felt thick—pressurized, like the ground itself was listening.

My phone buzzed.

Voicemail — Unknown Number

“Daddy, they’re closer now.”

Something scraped in the background.

Nails.

On wood.

I collapsed beside her grave.

“I’m here,” I cried. “I’m here, baby.”

The voicemail ended with a breath.

Not electronic.

Human.

Behind me.

I turned.

No one stood there—but the shadows between headstones were wrong. Too long. Too many. They shifted without moving.

The soil beneath my hands trembled.

I ran.

The messages followed me home.

Every night.

Always from tomorrow.

“They’re opening the box.”

“I can’t feel my legs.”

“Please, Daddy.”

Her voice grew weaker. Sometimes layered with whispers. Sometimes laughter—low and wet, not hers.

I begged police, therapists, priests.

To them, the voicemails were silent.

Empty.

On the seventh night, the message changed.

“Daddy,” she said calmly, “I’m not alone anymore.”

Cold spread through my chest.

“They said if I help them, I can come home.”

The lights flickered.

The walls creaked.

My phone buzzed one final time.

Voicemail — Unknown Number

Sent: Now

“I’m outside.”

The front door handle turned.

Dirt fell through the frame. The smell of wet earth filled the hallway. My phone slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor.

Her voice came again—this time not through a speaker.

“Daddy,” she said gently,

“You promised you’d never leave me.”

Something scratched the door.

Something breathed.

Something smiled.

I reached for the lock.

Because parents don’t abandon their children.

Even when they should.

Author’s Note

This story was written with the assistance of AI and carefully edited, revised, and finalized by Anees Ul Ameen to ensure originality, emotional depth, and narrative quality.