The 2:17 Call

At 2:17 a.m., Daniel’s phone rang. No one ever called that late—not since his wife,

Mara, died six months ago. It buzzed again. UNKNOWN CALLER.

Daniel answered. “Hello?” Breathing came through the speaker—slow and uneven.

“Mara?” he whispered. The breathing stopped. Then her voice, distant and thin. “Danny… I’m cold.”

His chest tightened. Grief. Hallucination. “This isn’t funny,” he said.

“Who is this?” “I don’t have much time,” the voice said. “They don’t like

when I call you.” Daniel sat up. His lamp flicked on. The closet door

was open. “I buried you,” he said. “You’re dead.” “I know,” she replied.