The voicemail shows up at 8:07 a.m., a red dot on my screen while I’m stirring burnt coffee in the break room.
It’s from an unknown number, but the area code is local. I almost ignore it.
Then I see the transcription preview:
Don’t go home.
I open it.
The message is thirty-two seconds long. Yesterday, 11:38 p.m.
Creepy enough, even before the weird part.
Except the caller ID doesn’t say Unknown.
It says Me.
My own contact photo. The same one that appears when I call my voicemail from my phone: You.
Except last night at 11:38, I was home, in bed, drifting off to a Netflix show I barely remember.
No outgoing calls.
No FaceTime.
Nothing.
I hit play.
There’s a hiss of ambient noise, like a car window cracked open at highway speed.
Then my voice says:
“Okay, listen to me. You don’t have time to question this. You cannot go home tonight.”
My free hand tightens around the paper cup.
“Check the timestamp,” the other me says. “For you. For me it’s… earlier today. Or yesterday. It doesn’t matter. What matters is you believe this: if you go back to our apartment after work, you die.”
She’s breathless, like she’s been running.
“This isn’t a prank,” she continues. “You’ll think gas leak or carbon monoxide or whatever. It’s not that. You call the landlord, they’ll say the detectors are fine. You call the cops, a car will roll past, nobody will get out.”
A shaky inhale.
“Don’t try to fix the building,” my voice says. “Just don’t be in it.”
My heart is in my throat.
On the recording, she says:
“You’re thinking, If this is real, why don’t I remember making this call? Why don’t I remember whatever’s about to happen?”
A familiar, humorless half-laugh.
“Because you didn’t get to remember. That’s the point. I’m the version that did. I’m the one they—”
Static tears through the speaker, loud enough that I flinch.
Three seconds of white noise.
Then my voice again, thinner, farther away.
“Forget how. Just do these things.”
She starts to count.
“One: Don’t go home. Not tonight, not for anything. Sleep at the office, a hotel, a friend’s couch. Anywhere but 50C.”
“Two: At 3:23 p.m., your phone will ring from an unknown number. You’ll be in the copy room. Don’t answer it. Let it go to voicemail. Delete it without listening.”
I check the clock.
8:09 a.m.
“Three,” she says, and her voice wavers. “Block Mom’s number for twenty-four hours.”
My stomach drops.
“Why?” I whisper.
On the recording, I ask it too. The overlap makes my skin crawl.
“Because she’s going to call crying,” the other me says. “She’ll say words that make you think you can fix this. You can’t. If you hear her voice, you’ll cave.”
The last few seconds are just breathing.
Mine.
Hers.
Then, right before it cuts off:
“I’m sorry. For what I couldn’t do. Don’t make it for nothing.”
The message ends.
I replay it twice. No robotic edges. It’s me. Exactly me. Whoever faked this had access to more of my life than I do.
If it’s fake.
If it’s not.
At 3:23 p.m., my phone rings while I’m in the copy room.
Unknown number.
I let it go to voicemail.
And I delete it without listening.
That night, I don’t go home.
I drive to the other side of town and stay at one of the business hotels. It smells like old lemons.
At 5:41 p.m., my mom calls. I stare at the phone and feel guilty for not answering. What if it’s important? I let voicemail pick it up.
At 5:42 p.m., my mom calls again. I let it roll over. I press and hold her name.
Block caller.
I am sorry, Mom.
I fall asleep with the TV on and my phone on the pillow next to me.
In the middle of the night, a news alert buzzes:
Breaking: Four Dead in Apartment Fire at Maple Ridge Apartments.
My development.
The photo shows Building 50.
My building.
Apartments A, B, C, and D are burning from the inside out.
For a moment, I can’t feel my hands at all.
The fire started in my kitchen.
The next morning at 8:06 a.m., my phone buzzes again.
New Voicemail — Yesterday, 11:38 p.m.
From: Me.
I don’t hit play.
I already know what I said.