My mom keeps texting me… but she died last year

 It started two nights ago. I got a text from my mom’s number that said, “Did you lock the door?” I froze. Her number had been disconnected after the funeral. I told myself it was some kind of scam or someone using her old number—but the texts kept coming.

Last night, I got another one: “Someone’s in the hallway.” I checked, shaking, but the hall was empty. I didn’t sleep at all. Tonight, I decided to text back. I typed, “Who is this?” and hit send. A minute later, I got a photo in return—blurry, taken from the end of the hallway. It showed me, sitting on my bed, looking at my phone.

I dropped the phone and ran to the hallway, but no one was there. My front door was still locked, my windows shut tight. I checked the photo again, zooming in, and that’s when I noticed something I hadn’t before—a faint figure behind me in the picture. A woman’s silhouette. Her hand was reaching out toward my shoulder.

I tried to call the number, but it went straight to voicemail. The automated voice said the number was no longer in service. That’s when I heard my phone buzz again. Another text. It said: “Don’t be scared, honey. I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

My eyes filled with tears. I whispered, “Mom?” into the silence. Then another message appeared—this time, the words were shaky, letters uneven, like she was struggling to type:

“He’s in the house.”

Before I could move, I heard the floorboards creak behind me. Slowly, I turned toward the sound. My phone slipped from my hand, the screen still glowing with the final message that just appeared:

“Run.”

I bolted for the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The lock was cold—almost frozen. I could hear slow, heavy breathing coming from somewhere in the dark living room. Every instinct told me not to look, but I did anyway. There was a man standing there. Or something shaped like one. His face was wrong—blurred, like a smudge that kept shifting.

I stumbled backward, grabbing my phone from the floor, trying to call 911, but the screen glitched—letters flickering between numbers and words. Then, for a split second, Mom’s contact photo appeared again. The phone vibrated once more, and a voice message started playing automatically.

It was her voice. Weak. Distorted.

“I tried to warn you… He followed me from the other side.”

The lights flickered out completely. I could still hear her voice through the phone, whispering softly, “I love you.” And underneath that—breathing. Closer now. Right behind me.

That’s the last thing I remember before everything went dark.

I woke up this morning on the floor with my phone in my hand. All the texts and photos were gone. The call log was empty. But there was one new message waiting for me. No number. Just words.

“See you tonight, sweetheart.”