Writers 
The Last Voice Note
At 2:13 a.m., my phone received a voice note from me.
I stared at the notification for several seconds, convinced I was still dreaming.
The sender was my own number.
I checked it again.
Same profile picture.
Same phone number.
Same name.
Me.
I almost laughed.
Maybe it was some strange glitch. Maybe someone had somehow spoofed my number. Maybe my phone was simply malfunctioning.
Then I played it.
There was silence for the first five seconds.
Then my voice whispered:
“Don't go home tomorrow.”
I sat upright.
The recording ended.
I played it again.
It was definitely my voice.
Not similar.
Not someone who sounded like me.
Mine.
I checked the recording details.
2:13 a.m.
Sent from my number.
Received at 2:13 a.m.
I didn't sleep for the rest of the night.
The next morning, I told myself it was nothing.
Phones glitch.
Technology does strange things.
People make mistakes.
And there was absolutely no logical explanation for what had happened.
So I went to work.
At around noon, another voice note arrived.
From me.
This one was only eight seconds long.
“Please listen to me.”
My stomach tightened.
I didn't respond.
Another one arrived.
“Don't trust the man in the blue shirt.”
I looked around the office.
There were three men wearing blue shirts.
I immediately regretted looking.
I locked my phone and tried to concentrate on work.
For the rest of the afternoon, nothing happened.
By evening, I had almost convinced myself that the messages were some elaborate prank.
Then, at exactly 6:42 p.m., my phone vibrated again.
One final voice note.
I pressed play.
This time, my voice sounded frightened.
“Whatever happens, don't take the shortcut through the old market.”
I froze.
That was the exact route I took home every day.
It was shorter.
Quieter.
And usually empty by evening.
I decided to ignore the message.
I packed my things and left work.
When I reached the junction, I stopped.
The old market was directly ahead.
My usual route.
I stood there for nearly a minute.
Then I turned toward the longer road.
I don't know why.
Maybe fear had finally won.
Maybe some part of me believed the voice.
Ten minutes later, I received another message.
Not a voice note this time.
A photograph.
It showed the old market.
The picture had been taken from across the street.
I could see the exact junction where I had been standing moments earlier.
And there was something else.
A man in a blue shirt stood near the entrance.
I zoomed in.
He was holding a phone.
Pointed directly toward the camera.
Toward me.
My hands went cold.
I ran home.
I didn't stop until I reached my apartment.
I locked the door.
Checked the windows.
Pulled the curtains.
Then I sat on my bed, staring at my phone.
At 11:58 p.m., another voice note arrived.
I hesitated before playing it.
When I finally did, I heard my own voice crying.
“I'm sorry.”
A pause.
Then:
“I couldn't stop him.”
The recording ended.
At exactly midnight, someone knocked on my door.
Three times.
Slowly.
I didn't move.
Then my phone rang.
The screen showed my own number.
I answered.
For several seconds, there was nothing but breathing.
Then my voice spoke.
Not through a recording.
Through the phone.
“Whatever you do…”
The person on the other end paused.
“…don't open the door.”
I stared at the door.
Another knock.
Three slow knocks.
Then the voice whispered:
“Because I'm already inside.”
I dropped the phone.
The bedroom door behind me slowly began to open.
And for the first time that night, I realized something I hadn't noticed before.
My bedroom wasn't empty.
There was someone standing in the corner.
Holding my phone.
And smiling.