“Voicemail”

It started with a missed call from her own number.

Jenna was walking home from her shift at the diner when her phone buzzed — a voicemail notification. She was sure she hadn’t pocket-dialed herself. Curious, she played the message.

Static. Then a faint whisper:
“Don’t go home.”

She stopped in her tracks.

Looking around, the street was empty. Just the hum of a distant streetlamp and her breath fogging in the cold. She shook it off, chalked it up to a prank, and kept walking.

Her apartment door was unlocked. That was strange. Jenna always triple-checked it. Inside, nothing seemed disturbed. But something felt wrong. The air was heavy. The silence too still.

Another voicemail.
This time, it was her voice.
Sobbing.
“He’s in the walls. Please, if you get this, don’t come back here. I’m so sorry.”

Her phone rang.

The caller ID again showed JENNA (ME).

Against every instinct screaming at her, she answered.

A wet, rattling breath rasped through the line. Then a voice — low, gurgling — not hers but wearing her voice like a mask:
“Too late.”

The call ended.
The lights went out.
Something crawled out of the kitchen wall.