This is my true story. I buried my son 20 years ago. Every Sunday, for two decades, I stood at his grave. His phone number stayed in my contacts because deleting it felt like losing him twice. But last month, my phone rang at 2:47 a.m. His name lit up the screen. I answered. A voice said, “Dad, where am I?”

It was him. My dead son was calling me. Confused. Scared. Asking why nothing made sense. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. Before I tell you what happened next, tell me where you’re watching from, and subscribe so this story reaches everyone.

20 years ago, I buried my son beneath an oak tree at Riverside Cemetery. His name was carved into Greystone: Michael James Porter, born April 12th, 1986, died November 3rd, 2005, at 19 years old. The funeral lasted 40 minutes. Maybe 30 people came. His mother stood beside me but wouldn’t look at the casket. She stared at the ground the entire time. Her sister had to hold her up. My son’s friends came—young kids with red eyes who didn’t know what to say. They shuffled their feet, mumbled their condolences.

Within a year, most of them stopped calling. Within two years, none of them mentioned his name. That’s how death works. People move on. They have to. But I couldn’t.

The accident happened on a Friday night. He was driving home from work when a truck ran a red light and hit him on the driver’s side. The impact killed him instantly. That’s what the police told me. No suffering. No pain. Just gone. I got the call at 11:43 p.m. I remember the exact time because I was watching the news and looked at the clock when the phone rang. The officer said there had been an accident. He told me to come to County General Hospital immediately. I knew. Parents always know.

I drove there at 90 mph. I didn’t care if I crashed. When I arrived, they took me to a private room. That’s when I knew for certain. They only use private rooms for bad news. They let me see him. His face was untouched. He looked asleep. Peaceful. I touched his hand, and it was still warm. I kept thinking he would wake up. I stood there for 2 hours, waiting for his chest to move. It never did.

His mother arrived and screamed. She screamed so loud security came. She collapsed. They had to sedate her. She couldn’t go to the identification. She couldn’t sign papers. I did everything alone. I picked the coffin. I chose the plot. I wrote the obituary. I selected the flowers. I did it all in a fog, moving through motions I didn’t understand.

The funeral was worse than the hospital. At the hospital, I could pretend. I could imagine mistakes. But at the funeral, they lowered him into the ground. I heard the machinery. I heard the coffin settle into the earth. People threw flowers onto the lid. His mother threw a letter she had written. I threw nothing. I just watched. After everyone left, I stayed. The workers filled the grave, shovel by shovel. I watched every minute. I needed to see it finished. I needed to know he was really down there. When they packed the last of the dirt, I finally walked away.

For 20 years, I visited every Sunday. Rain, snow, heat—it didn’t matter. I brought flowers. I talked to him. I told him about my week. I told him things I couldn’t tell anyone else. His mother stopped coming after the first year. She said it hurt too much. She said she needed to move forward. We divorced 3 years after he died. Grief killed our marriage. She remarried. She had another child. She built a new life. I couldn’t.

I kept his room exactly the way he left it. His clothes still hung in the closet. His books sat on the shelf. His phone number stayed in my contacts. I paid the bill every month even though the phone had been disconnected. $30 a month to keep his number alive in my phone. People said I needed therapy. People said I needed to let go. I didn’t care what people said. I learned to live around the emptiness. You don’t get over losing a child. You just learn to walk carefully around the hole they leave behind. You learn to function. You go to work. You pay bills. You pretend you’re fine, but you’re never fine.

Every birthday that passed without him was torture. Every Christmas. Every milestone he would never reach. I watched his friends graduate college, get married, have children. My son stayed 19 forever, frozen in time. A boy who never got to become a man. I accepted it. I had no choice. Dead is final.

Until last month. On September 14th, my phone rang at 2:47 a.m. I was asleep. The sound jolted me awake. I grabbed the phone off my nightstand and looked at the screen. The name said Michael, my son’s name. His contact photo stared back at me. A picture from his 18th birthday, smiling, alive.

I sat frozen in bed holding the phone. My heart hammered in my chest. The room felt cold. My hands started shaking so badly I almost dropped it. This couldn’t be real. The number had been disconnected for 19 years. I had kept it in my contacts, but it didn’t work. I had tried calling it hundreds of times over the years. It always went to a recorded message saying the number was no longer in service. But now it was calling me.

The phone kept ringing. Four rings. Five rings. I couldn’t move. My thumb hovered over the answer button, but I couldn’t press it. What if it was a mistake? What if it was some sick prank? What if I answered and heard nothing?

On the sixth ring, something inside me broke. I pressed the button. I lifted the phone to my ear. For 3 seconds, I heard nothing. Just silence. Dead air. Then I heard breathing. Slow breathing in and out. Steady, human. Someone was there.

My throat closed up. I couldn’t speak. I tried to say hello, but no sound came out. Then a voice spoke. “Dad.” One word. Quiet. Confused. Scared. My son’s voice. I know my son’s voice. I heard it every day for 19 years. I heard it in my dreams for 20 years after. This was him. Not a recording. Not a memory. Him. Actually, him speaking to me through the phone.

My vision blurred. Tears ran down my face. I still couldn’t speak. My body wouldn’t work. “Dad, are you there?” he said again. His voice cracked. He sounded desperate, lost.

I forced air into my lungs. I forced words out of my throat. “Michael,” I whispered. My voice didn’t sound like my own. Silence on the other end. Long silence then. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Where am I?” His question made no sense. “Where was he? What kind of question was that?”

“Where are you calling from?” I asked. My voice was shaking. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Where are you calling from?”

More silence. I heard him breathing faster now. Panicked breathing. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know where I am. Nothing makes sense. Dad, something’s wrong. Everything feels wrong.”

I stood up from my bed. I turned on the light. I needed to think clearly, but my brain wasn’t working. My son was dead. I buried him. I watched them put him in the ground. This couldn’t be happening.

“Michael, what’s going on?” I asked. “Where have you been?” I didn’t know what else to say. What do you ask someone who’s been dead for 20 years?

He made a sound like a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I remember the accident. I remember the truck hitting me. I remember dying. I felt it, Dad. I died. But then I woke up and everything was different. I look different. I feel different. I’m in some place I don’t recognize. And people walk right past me like I’m not even here. I’ve been trying to figure out what happened, but nothing makes sense. I found a phone. Your number was the only one I remembered.”

My legs gave out. I sat down hard on the edge of my bed. My son remembered dying. He knew he died, but he was talking to me. How was he talking to me?

“Are you hurt?” I asked. Stupid question. He’s dead, but he’s calling me. Nothing made sense.

“No,” he said. “I’m not hurt, but I’m scared. I don’t understand what’s happening. Can you come get me, please?” His voice broke on the word, please. He sounded like a little boy again, lost and afraid and needing his father.

“Tell me where you are,” I said. “Give me an address. I’ll come right now.”

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know why I’m here, but Dad, something’s really wrong. I went outside today, and people looked right through me. A woman walked into me. Actually into me, like I wasn’t solid. I think I’m dead. I think I’m a ghost or something.”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but I said it anyway. “You’re talking to me. Ghosts can’t use phones.”

He laughed, but it sounded broken. “Then what am I?” he asked. “I look in mirrors and I see someone older. I see a face that’s almost mine, but not quite. I’m so confused. I’m so tired. Can you please come get me?”

His voice broke again on the word, please.

Tell me where you are, I said. Give me an address. I’ll come right now.

“I don’t know the address,” he said. “I’m in a building. It’s dark. There are apartments. I’ll try to find something with an address on it.”

I heard movement through the phone. Footsteps. A door opening. Then the line went dead. Just like that. Gone.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. The call timer showed 9 minutes and 43 seconds. I immediately called back. The recording played. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I tried again. Same message. I tried 15 more times. Same message every time. My dead son had just called me asking for help, and then he vanished.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed staring at my phone until the sun came up. I kept replaying the call in my head. His voice. The way he said, “Dad.” The fear in his tone. The confusion.

It wasn’t a recording. Recordings don’t hesitate. Recordings don’t ask questions. Recordings don’t sound lost. This was a real conversation with a real person who knew things only my son would know.

He knew about the accident. He knew my number. He knew who I was. But my son was dead. I saw his body. I touched his cold hand at the hospital. I watched them close the coffin. I watched them bury him 6 feet under the ground.

At 6:30 a.m., I drove to the cemetery. I needed to see the grave. I needed proof he was still there. The morning was cold and gray. Fog hung low over the headstones. I parked and walked to the oak tree. His grave looked exactly the same as it always did. Gray stone. Fresh flowers from my visit 3 days earlier. The ground was solid and undisturbed. No one had dug him up. No one had touched the earth.

I knelt down and put my hand on the grass. It was cold and wet with dew. “Michael,” I whispered. “Are you down there?”

Stupid question. Of course, he was down there. I buried him myself.

But then who called me?

I stayed at the grave for an hour. I didn’t pray. I’m not religious. I just sat there trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe grief had finally broken my mind after 20 years. Maybe I was going crazy.

But when I checked my phone, the call was there in my history. Michael’s name. 2:47 a.m. 9 minutes and 43 seconds.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Real.

I took a screenshot of the call log. I needed evidence. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind. Then I drove home and waited. I didn’t know what else to do.

3 days passed. Nothing. No calls. No messages. I barely ate. I barely slept. I kept my phone in my hand every second. I was afraid to shower because I might miss a call. I was afraid to leave the house.

My neighbor knocked on my door asking if I was okay. I didn’t answer. I just sat in my living room staring at my phone, willing it to ring.

On the fourth day at 3:15 a.m., it rang again. His name. His picture. I answered before the first ring finished.

“Michael,” I said immediately.

“Dad,” his voice came through. He sounded worse than before. Tired. Desperate. “I found something. I found an address.”

My heart jumped. “Where?”

I grabbed a pen and paper off my coffee table. “What’s the address?”

He read it slowly. “4247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 8, Morfield, West Virginia.”

I wrote it down. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely read my own writing.

“That’s two states away,” I said. “What are you doing