My son-in-law forgot his phone on my coffee table last Sunday night. When it rang, the screen lit up with a face I had not seen in five years. It was my wife. My dead wife. But the real horror didn’t begin until I pressed play on the voicemail and heard her voice begging me to sell our home from beyond the grave.
I stood in the center of my living room, the silence of the house pressing against my ears. The Sunday roast I had cooked for my daughter Sarah and her husband Jason was still sitting heavy in my stomach. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and the expensive cologne Jason always wore, a scent that lingered long after he left, like he was marking territory. Outside, the streetlights of our quiet New England cul-de-sac bled through the sheer curtains, turning the windows into pale squares.
I was just about to clear the table when I saw it: Jason’s phone. It was sitting on the edge of the leather sofa, half-hidden by a throw pillow. The latest model, sleek and black, the kind that costs more than my first car. He must have slipped it out of his pocket when he sat down to complain about the economy again, which had become his favorite topic of conversation lately.
I reached out to grab it, thinking I could jog out to the driveway and catch him before he pulled away. But before my fingers even touched the cold glass, the screen lit up. The room was dim, illuminated only by the streetlights outside, so the sudden brightness was almost blinding.
And then I saw the photo.
My breath hitched in my throat, a sharp physical pain that radiated down my left arm.
It was Catherine.
My Catherine.
But it wasn’t just any photo. It was a picture I had taken of her in the hospital garden the week before the cancer took her from me five years ago, at Massachusetts General in Boston. She was wearing her blue cardigan, the one she said made her feel safe. She looked so frail, but her smile was there, that gentle curve of her lips that had anchored my world for forty years.
Below the photo, the caller ID read: Catherine – Mom.
I froze. My hand hovered over the device, trembling so hard I could hear the keys on the coffee table rattling.
I am a rational man. I spent thirty years as a forensic accountant, chasing money trails and exposing corporate fraud, half my career in glass towers on Wall Street and half consulting out of this old colonial house. I deal in facts, in numbers, in hard evidence. I do not believe in ghosts.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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