The Wrong Voice

I was in bed, scrolling through my phone. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the screen. It was past midnight, and I should’ve been asleep, but my mind wouldn’t shut off. There was this nagging feeling, like I’d forgotten something.
Without thinking, I opened my call log and tapped on my mom’s number. She always told me to call, no matter how late. “If you’re ever feeling off,” she’d say, “just call me.” So I did.
It rang twice before she answered.
“Hello?”
Her voice was soft, like she’d been sleeping. But there was something off. The way she said “hello” was too slow, almost deliberate, like she was trying to mimic how she usually sounded.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry, did I wake you?”
There was a long pause. Too long. Then she said, “No… you didn’t wake me, sweetheart.”
My stomach tightened. She sounded like her, but the way she said “sweetheart” made my skin crawl. The word stretched unnaturally, each syllable dripping with something I couldn’t place.
“Are you okay?” I asked, sitting up. My voice cracked a little.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her tone was wrong. It was flat, emotionless, like she was reading a script.
A chill ran down my spine. “Mom… is something wrong?”
The line crackled. I thought I heard her whisper something, but I couldn’t make it out.
“What did you say?” I asked, my voice louder now.
Silence.
“Mom?”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone, my heart pounding in my chest. The screen showed the call had lasted one minute and eleven seconds.
I didn’t hesitate—I called her again. This time, she picked up right away.
“Hey, honey,” she said, her voice warm and familiar. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling so late?”
My breath caught in my throat. “Mom… I just called you. A minute ago. You answered, but—” I stopped myself. How was I supposed to explain this without sounding insane?
She laughed softly. “Sweetheart, you didn’t call me. I’ve been asleep.”
“No, I did. You answered. We talked—well, kind of. It didn’t sound like you, though.”
“Maybe you dreamed it,” she said. But her voice carried a hint of unease now.
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “It wasn’t a dream.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “Honey, I swear I haven’t been on the phone tonight. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I wanted to believe her. I really did. But that voice… it wasn’t a dream.
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m fine. Sorry for waking you.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft again. “Call me if you need me, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too.”
When the call ended, I sat there, staring at the screen. My hands were shaking, and the room felt colder than before.
I didn’t call her again that night. But I couldn’t shake the sound of that voice, the way it had dragged my name out like it was testing the word. It sounded like my mom, but it wasn’t her.
It couldn’t have been.
I couldn’t sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the streetlights outside. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, but I kept glancing at it like it might light up on its own.
The sound of her voice—that voice—played in my head on a loop. Slow, stretched, too deliberate. It was wrong, but it wasn’t entirely foreign. That’s what scared me the most.
At some point, I must’ve dozed off, but when I woke up, the clock read 3:12 a.m. I hadn’t set an alarm. The silence in my room felt heavier than usual, like the air itself had thickened.
Then, the phone rang.
I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs. The screen glowed, illuminating the room just enough for me to see the caller ID: Mom.
My hand hovered over the phone, hesitating. I told myself it was nothing. Just a normal call. Maybe she couldn’t sleep either.
I answered, trying to steady my voice. “Hello?”
But all I heard was static.
“Mom?” I said again, louder this time.
A crackling noise came through, sharp and grating, like an old radio struggling to tune into a station. Then, faintly, I heard my name.
“Sweetheart…”
My skin prickled. It was the same voice as before. Slow. Drawn out. Mocking.
“Who is this?” I demanded, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles ached.
The voice ignored me. “It’s so late… you should be sleeping.”
I froze. The way it spoke felt personal, like it knew me, like it had been watching me.
“What do you want?” My voice cracked.
The static grew louder, drowning out the voice for a moment. Then, clear as day, it said, “Come find me.”
I hung up, throwing the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. My breathing was shallow, my chest tight.
For a while, I just sat there, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring again. It didn’t.
Instead, there was a sound from outside my room. A faint creak, like someone had stepped on the floorboard in the hallway.
I told myself it was nothing. Just the old apartment settling. But then I heard it again, closer this time.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice shaky.
No answer.
I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Slowly, I got out of bed and crept toward the door.
The hallway was empty. Nothing but shadows. But the air felt colder out here, like something unseen was lurking just beyond the reach of the light.
Then I saw it.
My mom’s voice wasn’t the only thing that had been wrong. There, at the end of the hallway, was my reflection in the hallway mirror. But it wasn’t moving like me.
It was standing still, staring at me with wide, empty eyes. And then it smiled.
I froze, unable to look away. The reflection’s smile was wrong, stretched too wide, teeth gleaming in the dim light from my phone’s flashlight. My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to take a step closer, each movement slow and hesitant.
The air in the hallway felt different now—denser, like walking through water. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my grip on the phone tightened, the light trembling as I moved.
“Who… who are you?” My voice barely rose above a whisper.
The reflection didn’t respond. It just stood there, grinning at me with a mockery of my own face. My hand twitched, the one holding the phone, and I realized it wasn’t even trying to mimic my movements anymore.
I stepped closer. The closer I got, the more I noticed little things about it—subtle differences. Its eyes were darker, almost black, and the skin around them seemed sunken, like it hadn’t slept in days.
And then it moved.
Not like a person, though. It jerked, its head tilting unnaturally to one side as its grin widened even further. My stomach churned.
“Stop it,” I said, my voice louder now. “You’re not real.”
It cocked its head, as if considering me. Then, it raised its hand. My hand. But instead of mimicking the way I held the phone, it pointed directly at me.
The hallway light flickered. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear myself think.
“I said, stop it!” I screamed this time, and my voice echoed down the hallway.
The reflection’s lips moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. It mouthed something, slow and deliberate, its dark eyes locked onto mine. I couldn’t understand it, but whatever it was saying made my skin crawl.
My phone buzzed in my hand, startling me so badly that I nearly dropped it. I glanced down—another call. Mom.
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. The reflection didn’t move, but its grin faltered for just a moment, like it knew what I was about to do.
I answered. “Hello?”
This time, her voice was clear. “Honey, are you okay? You sound out of breath.”
Relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. “Mom? Where are you?”
“I’m at home, sweetheart. It’s late—why are you calling so much?” Her tone was calm, gentle, but something about it felt… off.
I glanced back at the mirror. The reflection wasn’t there anymore. The hallway was empty, just my own flashlight beam shaking against the walls.
“Mom, I didn’t—” My voice faltered. “You called me.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “No, I didn’t,” she said slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
My throat tightened. I could still feel that dense, oppressive air around me, even though the hallway looked normal again.
“Yeah, I… I’m fine,” I lied.
“Okay. Get some rest, alright? You sound like you’ve had a long day.”
“Sure,” I said quickly. “Goodnight.”
I hung up before she could say anything else and stared at the mirror again. The glass was empty, just a reflection of the dim hallway. I took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet.
I reached out, my hand trembling as I touched the surface. It was cold, much colder than it should’ve been.
And then, faintly, I heard it—her voice. But it wasn’t coming from the phone this time.
It was coming from behind the mirror.
The voice whispered my name, soft and low, like the way you might hum a lullaby. It wasn’t my mother’s voice anymore—not really. It had the same tone, the same rhythm, but it felt hollow, like someone was trying too hard to mimic her.
My hand shot back from the mirror, and I stumbled a few steps away, my back hitting the wall. The phone in my hand buzzed again, and I almost dropped it. Mom, the screen said.
I didn’t answer this time. I couldn’t. My thumb hovered over the screen as her voice whispered again, this time clearer.
“Why won’t you answer me, sweetheart?” The words slithered out from the mirror like they were alive, crawling into my ears and wrapping around my chest. “You always call me, don’t you? Don’t you want to hear my voice?”
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “You’re not real,” I muttered, more to myself than to the thing behind the glass. “This isn’t real.”
The air seemed heavier now, pressing against my chest like a weight. When I opened my eyes, the reflection was back. Only this time, it wasn’t just standing there.
It was closer.
Its face was inches from the surface of the mirror, but it wasn’t my face anymore. The skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Its eyes were sunken, black pits that seemed to drink in the light from my phone.
And it was still smiling.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My legs felt like they were locked in place, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” it said, its voice echoing faintly, like it was speaking from the bottom of a well.
It tilted its head, studying me. Its smile grew wider, impossibly wide, splitting its face in half.
“I’ve been waiting,” it whispered. “So long. For you.”
My stomach twisted, and I forced myself to look away. My phone buzzed again, the sound jarring in the oppressive silence.
Mom.
This time, I answered. “Mom?”
Her voice was frantic. “Honey, are you okay? You’re scaring me.”
“I…” My voice cracked. I glanced back at the mirror. The thing inside it was still watching me, its black eyes gleaming with something that looked like hunger. “Mom, where are you?”
“I told you, I’m at home. Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not making any sense.”
“Stay there,” I said quickly. “Don’t—don’t leave the house.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice rising. “You’re scaring me, sweetheart.”
I didn’t answer. My eyes were locked on the mirror as the thing inside it reached out, its hand pressing against the glass. The surface rippled like water, and my stomach dropped.
“You shouldn’t have answered,” it said, its voice dripping with malice. “You opened the door.”
The glass cracked under its hand, thin fractures spreading like spiderwebs. I took a step back, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Mom,” I said into the phone, my voice shaking. “If anything happens—if I don’t call you back—just stay where you are, okay? Don’t come here.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “What’s happening?”
The mirror shattered.
I screamed, dropping the phone as shards of glass flew in every direction. But there was no sound of them hitting the floor, no clatter or crash.
When I looked back, the hallway was empty. The mirror was gone.
But the voice wasn’t.
It was behind me now.
The voice came from just behind my ear, soft and low.
“Sweetheart,” it whispered, drawing the word out like it enjoyed tasting every syllable.
I spun around, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. There was nothing there. The hallway stretched out in front of me, the dim light from the single bulb overhead flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on or go out.
I fumbled for my phone, which lay face down on the floor where I’d dropped it. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, pressing it to my ear.
“Mom?” I croaked.
There was no response. Just static.
“Mom, please,” I said, my voice breaking. “Say something.”
The static shifted, crackling like someone was breathing into the phone. Then came a laugh—a soft, low chuckle that didn’t belong to her.
“You really thought she could help you?” the voice asked. It sounded closer now, more distinct. It wasn’t coming from the phone anymore.
I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, but my legs wouldn’t obey. The air behind me felt colder, heavier, like the space itself was being swallowed up by something unseen.
The hallway seemed longer than it had before, stretching into darkness that didn’t belong in my apartment. At the end of it, a figure stood, barely visible in the flickering light.
It wasn’t me, but it was.
It had my face, my posture, even the way I held my arms close to my body when I was scared. But its eyes were wrong. They were too wide, too dark, and they didn’t blink.
“Why are you running?” it asked, its voice layered with mine and something deeper, more guttural. “You called me, remember?”
I couldn’t move. My back pressed against the wall as it started walking toward me, each step deliberate, as if it wanted me to feel every second of its approach.
“I’ve been waiting,” it said. Its mouth didn’t move when it spoke, but the words were clear. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”
It stopped a few feet away, tilting its head to the side in a mockery of curiosity. Its grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting its face in a way that didn’t seem possible.
“Who are you?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
It laughed again, the sound echoing around me. “You know who I am,” it said. “You’ve always known. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
“I don’t—”
It moved faster than I could react, closing the distance between us in a single, jerky motion. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could feel the cold radiating off its skin.
“You let me in,” it whispered. “When you picked up the phone. When you answered her voice.”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “No,” I said, my voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Doesn’t matter,” it said, grinning wider. “You’re mine now.”
The flickering light above us went out completely, plunging the hallway into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light, casting a faint glow on the thing’s face.
And then it reached for me.
I stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The wall behind me was unyielding, cold as ice. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one clouding the air in front of me as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees in an instant.
Its hand—my hand—reached out, pale and unnatural in the dim light of my phone screen. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My voice, the one thing I could rely on, felt stolen.
“You won’t feel a thing,” it said. Its grin stretched wider than ever, splitting its face so grotesquely it hardly looked human anymore. “You’ll just… fade.”
I slammed my fist against the wall behind me, desperate for a way out. My eyes darted to the hallway, but it was different now—endless and dark, stretching into nothingness. My apartment, my sanctuary, was gone.
“Please,” I whispered, barely able to form the word.
It tilted its head, almost as if considering my plea. Then, in a voice that was half-mocking, half-genuine, it said, “You don’t even know what you’re begging for.”
The shadows around us thickened, rising like smoke, curling around my legs. They weren’t just darkness; they felt alive, cold and sticky as they climbed higher, wrapping around my waist and pulling me forward.
“No!” I screamed, finally finding my voice. I clawed at the wall, at the floor, but there was nothing to hold onto.
“You called me,” it said again, stepping closer. Its face loomed over mine, blocking out everything else. “You answered. That’s all it takes.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to will it all away. But its voice was inside me now, echoing in my head.
“I’ve been waiting for so long,” it whispered. “And now, you’ll wait too.”
I don’t know what happened next. The world shifted, like the ground beneath me disappeared. For a moment, there was only silence—deep, oppressive silence—and then the sensation of falling.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my apartment.
I was in the hallway, but it wasn’t mine. It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with doors that didn’t belong to me, didn’t belong anywhere. The air was thick and still, the kind of quiet that made my ears ring.
And then I saw it.
It was me. Or at least, it looked like me. It stood at the far end of the hallway, staring back at me with those wide, dark eyes. It didn’t smile this time. It just watched.
I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t obey. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I was trapped.
And then, slowly, it turned and began to walk away.
I don’t know how long I stood there, watching it disappear into the endless stretch of doors and shadows. Minutes? Hours? Time didn’t feel real anymore.
Eventually, I heard something—a faint sound, distant but growing louder.
It was a phone ringing.
I looked down, and there it was, glowing faintly in the dim light of the hallway floor. My phone.
It was vibrating, buzzing insistently, as if demanding I answer.
The screen lit up, showing a name I didn’t recognize. But as the ringing continued, the name changed, morphing letter by letter.
Until it read: Mom.
I didn’t want to pick it up. Every part of me screamed not to. But my hand moved on its own, reaching for the phone, fingers brushing against the cold glass.
I lifted it to my ear, heart hammering in my chest.
“Hello?” I whispered.
And then, in a voice that sounded just like mine, I heard:
“Sweetheart, I’ve been waiting for you.”
The call disconnected.
And the hallway went dark.