I Got a Call From My Mom Three Years After She Died

At three in the morning, my phone rang. It was my mother. The problem was, Mom had been dead for three years. “Honey, listen to me.” Her voice came through the phone so clearly that for one terrifying second, it felt like she was standing right beside my bed. “Don’t go to work next Wednesday. There’s going to be a fire at your office. “Take a day off. Tell your supervisor you have a family emergency out of town. Whatever you do, make sure you’re not in that building on Wednesday.” I shot upright in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Mom?” My voice trembled. “Remember. Do not go to work on Wednesday.” Her voice began breaking up, as though the signal were failing. “And one more thing. Your dad’s study. The third shelf. That copy of ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’. There’s something tucked inside.” The call suddenly disconnected. I sat frozen in the darkness. My entire body had gone cold. This wasn’t the first time I had received a call like this. The first one came three months ago. Mom had warned me not to take the subway that morning because there would be an accident on the Red Line. I hadn’t believed her. That day, a major signal failure brought a train to a halt inside a tunnel for two hours. No one was hurt, but I showed up so late that I lost an important client. The second call came a month ago. She told me not to eat seafood because I would get food poisoning. I was skeptical, but something about the first call still bothered me, so I skipped the dinner my coworkers had planned. That night, all seven people who went ended up in the hospital. The doctors confirmed they had all gotten food poisoning from the seafood. And now, for the third time, my dead mother had called me. Chapter 1 I turned on the light and stared at the unfamiliar number on my screen. Then I tried calling it back. A recorded voice answered. “The number you have dialed is not in service.” The next morning, I went to work with dark circles under my eyes. As I passed Dad’s study, I stopped. Dad had died together in a car accident three years ago. Since then, his study had remained exactly the way he left it. I rarely went inside. There were too many memories in that room. But that morning, I opened the door. The faint smell of dust and old books filled the air. I walked over to the bookcase, running my fingers along the spines until I found Gabriel García Márquez’s 'One Hundred Years of Solitude'. It was a hardcover edition. Dad’s favorite book. I pulled it from the shelf and opened it. A yellowed piece of paper slipped from between the pages and fluttered onto the carpet. I bent down and picked it up. There was only one sentence written on it, in Dad’s handwriting. 'Your twenty-third birthday present is hidden in the usual place.' My birthday was next month. Dad had died when I was twenty. Which meant he had written this before he died. The usual place. I knew exactly what he meant. When I was little, Dad loved setting up treasure hunts for me. Whenever he said something was hidden in “the usual place,” he meant the old suitcase tucked into the farthest corner of the attic. I stared at the note, my thoughts in complete chaos. The impossible phone calls from Mom. The mysterious note Dad had left behind. None of it made sense. But I didn’t have time to think about it. I put the note away and hurried to work. When Wednesday came, I went to the office anyway. At ten that morning, I was preparing materials for our quarterly presentation when screams suddenly erupted in the hallway. Then came the pounding of footsteps. A second later, the fire alarm blared through the entire building. The office really was on fire. Thick smoke began pouring in from the far end of the hallway. My coworkers panicked and rushed toward the emergency stairs. I was swept along with the crowd, my mind completely blank. Mom had been telling the truth. Sirens screamed outside as fire trucks raced toward the building. We gathered across the street and watched black smoke billow from the seventh floor. Our floor. Fortunately, firefighters brought the blaze under control quickly. No one was hurt. But my supervisor severely reprimanded me for ignoring my coworkers and insisting on going back to the office to retrieve my personal belongings. The truth was, I only wanted to see where the fire had started. The company also lost several important files in the fire. There was no evidence that I had anything to do with it. Still, after my strange insistence on going back inside, the atmosphere around me changed. People started looking at me differently. That night, the unfamiliar number called again. “Honey, why didn’t you listen to me?” There was disappointment in Mom’s voice. “Now listen carefully. You have an industry conference next week. Don’t take the shuttle bus the organizers provide. Get there on your own.” “Mom, what is happening?” I gripped the phone tighter. “How do you know these things? Why are you telling me?” There was silence on the other end for several seconds. Then Mom spoke softly. “I’m your mother. I’ll always protect you.” Her voice became more urgent. “Just remember. Do not get on that bus.” The call disconnected again. I sat there gripping my phone as a bone-deep chill spread through me. This wasn’t protection. It was some kind of impossible knowledge of the future. And every time she gave me a warning, something happened. If I listened, I avoided it. If I didn’t, I suffered the consequences. The industry conference was next Friday. This time, I decided to listen. Chapter 2 The conference venue was about twenty-five miles outside the city, and the organizers had arranged shuttle buses for everyone. That Friday morning, I booked a rideshare instead. Before getting in, I texted my coworker Claire. 'I get carsick pretty easily, so I’m heading there on my own. See you at the conference.' She replied with an OK emoji. As the car merged onto the highway, I stared out the window, unable to shake the uneasy feeling in my chest. Then a breaking-news alert appeared on my phone. 'Major highway crash involving passenger bus. Three dead, fifteen injured.' My fingers went cold. I opened the article. The photo showed a bus overturned on its side. The conference organizer’s logo was clearly visible across the body of the bus. My hand started trembling. I quickly locked my phone as nausea rolled through my stomach. If I had gotten on that bus, I might be dead right now. The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “Sir, you don’t look so good. You okay?” I shook my head. I couldn’t speak. At the conference, I barely heard a word anyone said. Claire never showed up. Later, I learned that she had suffered minor injuries in the crash and was being treated at the hospital. Everyone in our department kept telling me how lucky I was. I was the only one who hadn’t taken the shuttle. But I didn’t feel lucky at all. After the event ended, I took a rideshare home alone. When I reached my apartment building, I noticed my mailbox was stuffed with mail. One envelope immediately caught my attention. It was thick. And there was no return address. I took it upstairs and opened it. The second I saw what was inside, I sucked in a sharp breath. Photographs. Dozens of them. All of me. Walking to work. Shopping at the grocery store. Standing outside my apartment building. Every photo had been taken from a distance or from behind some kind of cover. Someone had been following me. Then I reached the last photograph. Every drop of blood in my body seemed to freeze. It showed Dad’s study. And there I was, standing in front of the bookcase with 'One Hundred Years of Solitude' in my hands. The timestamp on the photo read Saturday, 10:32 a.m., two weeks ago. I remembered that morning perfectly. I had been alone in the study. Completely alone. Someone was watching me. I turned the photograph over. A single sentence had been printed on the back. ‘Stop investigating your parents.’ I stared at the words. Investigating? I had never investigated my parents’ deaths. They had died in what everyone said was a straightforward car accident. The other driver had been drunk and died at the scene. The case had been closed years ago. Unless... It hadn’t been an accident. Suddenly, I remembered how strangely Dad had behaved in the weeks before he died. He had started taking phone calls late at night. Always behind closed doors. Always speaking in a low voice. One night, I had gotten up for a glass of water and passed his study. I heard him say, “Money isn’t the issue. Those files are what matter.” I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. I assumed he was talking about work. Mom had been nervous around then too. She kept checking the locks on the doors and windows. She even started insisting that I come straight home after school and not stay out. Could their deaths really have been something other than an accident? My phone rang. The same unknown number. I answered almost immediately. “Mom, tell me the truth.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “How did you and Dad really die? Who’s watching me?” A quiet sigh came through the phone. “Honey, there are things you’re safer not knowing.” “Right now, I need you to go somewhere.” I tightened my grip on the phone. “Where?” “There’s a flea market on the west side of the city. Find booth thirty-seven. “Ask the vendor for a red metal box.” My heart started pounding. “And then what?” “Once you have it, leave immediately. “Do not open it. “Go home and wait for my next instructions.” “Mom, I’m not just going to—” “If you want to stay alive, you’ll do exactly what I tell you.” Her voice suddenly turned stern. “And don’t go to the police.” A chill ran down my spine. “They have people inside the department too.” The call ended. Chapter 3 I sat on the couch, staring at the surveillance photos and the empty envelope in my hands. I had never felt so scared or helpless in my life. For a moment, I seriously considered calling the police. But Mom’s warning stopped me. 'They have people inside the department too.' If that was true, going to the police might put me in even more danger. In the end, I decided to follow her instructions. So far, at least, every warning she had given me had kept me alive. The next day was Saturday. I put on a baseball cap and a face mask, then took the bus to the flea market on the west side of the city. The place was packed with stalls selling secondhand goods, and the air smelled of dust and old things. I found booth thirty-seven near the back. The vendor was a thin old man polishing an antique radio. “Excuse me,” I said cautiously. “Do you have a red metal box?” He looked up. His cloudy eyes studied me for several seconds. “What kind of red metal box?” “Just... red.” That was all Mom had told me. The old man nodded. He bent down, dragged a cardboard box out from under his table, and rummaged through it. A moment later, he pulled out a small red tin box about the size of my palm. It looked old. There were spots of rust around the edges. “Fifty bucks.” I paid him and took the box. It was heavier than it looked. When I moved it, I could hear something sliding around inside. “Don’t open it here.” The old man’s voice suddenly dropped. I looked up. “What?” “Wait until you get home.” “But—” “Go.” His eyes darted past me. The tension in his face changed instantly. I followed his gaze. Two men in black jackets were standing near the entrance to the market. They weren’t shopping. They were scanning the crowd. My stomach tightened. I shoved the box into my backpack, pulled my cap lower, and quickly slipped away through another aisle. I didn’t go straight home. I doubled back several times, ducked into a few stores, and changed direction more than once. Only after I was reasonably sure no one had followed me did I call a rideshare. When I finally got back to my apartment, I locked the door and closed every curtain. Then I took the red box from my backpack. There was no lock. Just a simple metal clasp. I hesitated. Mom had specifically told me not to open it. So had the old man. But after everything that had happened, curiosity finally won. I flipped the clasp. Inside, there were no documents. No mysterious photographs. Nothing that looked particularly important. Just a memory card. And a folded note. The handwriting stopped me cold. It was Mom’s. 'Honey, if you’re reading this, it means you opened the box. And that means you no longer trust me. Destroy the memory card. Never look at what’s on it. I’m asking you to do this for your own good.' I stared at the note. Then at the tiny memory card sitting inside the box. My thoughts tore in opposite directions. Mom was telling me not to look. But after everything that had happened, could I really keep trusting her blindly? And another question had been bothering me more and more. Was the woman calling me really my mother? Was that cold, commanding voice truly the same gentle woman who had raised me? In the end, I didn’t destroy the memory card. But I didn’t look at it either. Instead, I sealed it in a plastic bag and hid it behind a stack of frozen food in the back of my freezer. It seemed like one of the last places anyone would think to search. For the next few days, nothing happened. No calls from strange numbers. No more surveillance photos. No men in black jackets. For a while, I almost convinced myself it was over. Then, the night before my birthday, everything changed. That night, my dead mother called again. Chapter 4 Mom sounded unusually urgent. “Honey, don’t go to the bank tomorrow. “Your father’s birthday gift isn’t safe to pick up yet.” I frowned. “Why? You said it was for my twenty-third birthday.” “Things have changed. The bank isn’t safe.” Her voice grew more urgent. “Listen to me. Stay home tomorrow. Don’t go anywhere.” “Mom, what are you afraid of?” I tightened my grip on the phone. “Who’s after us? What did Dad leave me?” Static crackled through the line. Her voice came and went, and I could only make out fragments. “Trust fund... your father’s company... they want... Honey, remember... don’t trust...” The call suddenly cut out. This time, it didn’t sound like she had hung up. It sounded as if the connection had been forcibly severed. I immediately called back. The same automated message answered. “The number you have dialed is not in service.” I didn’t sleep at all that night. By morning, I had made my decision. I was going to the bank. I needed to see what Dad had left me. I needed to know the truth. The bank Dad had designated was an old, well-established private bank downtown. I arrived at exactly nine that morning with my ID and the note Dad had left behind. A relationship manager in his forties greeted me. He was polite and professional. After checking my ID and the note, he nodded. “Mr. Carter, please come with me.” He led me into a room behind a heavy metal door. There was only a safe and a table inside. The manager entered a code, then used a key to open the safe. He took out a sealed document envelope. “Your father left this with us three years ago.” He placed it on the table. “His instructions were to give it to his son on his twenty-third birthday.” I looked at the envelope. It was thick and surprisingly heavy. “Would you like me to go over the contents with you?” the manager asked. “No, thank you.” I picked up the envelope. “Of course.” He handed me a document. “Then please sign here to confirm receipt.” I signed my name and left the bank with the envelope. I didn’t go home. Instead, I went to a nearby coffee shop and found a table in the corner. Inside the envelope was a thick stack of documents. On top was a letter in Dad’s handwriting. 'My dear son, If you’re reading this letter, then I’m already gone.'