The Static Between

I’ve always been a bit sensitive to the other side, but it never felt like a curse until now. When I was sixteen, my mother passed after a long illness. I was her caretaker, her confidant, and when she died, I felt a piece of me go with her. Not long after, I was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder, and during those months in the hospital, I would see her standing at the foot of my bed, her hand reaching out to touch my forehead. I was never afraid. She was my guardian angel, I told myself. When I finally went into remission, she stopped appearing, and I thought that chapter of my life was closed.

Now I’m twenty-three, and I’m eight weeks pregnant. The father, a man I met at a gallery opening, is not in the picture. I haven’t told him about the baby. In fact, I’ve been trying to reach him to tell him, but every time I call his number, the call drops after exactly four rings. It’s not a service issue—my phone works fine with everyone else. I tried my landline, which is ancient and still plugs into the wall, and the same thing happened: four rings, then a click, then silence. I even tried calling from a friend’s phone once, and he answered, but as soon as I said my name, the line went dead.

A few weeks ago, I adopted a pit bull mix from the shelter, a big, goofy boy named Bruno. He’s my rock, always sleeping at the foot of my bed or resting his heavy head on my belly as I watch TV. But two days ago, Bruno started acting strange. He would growl at the corner of my bedroom, his hackles raised, and he refused to come near me. Then my two other dogs, a nervous terrier and a lazy beagle, began joining him, all three of them cowering in the kitchen whenever I entered. I took them to the vet, but they checked out fine. The vet suggested it might be a chemical imbalance in my pregnancy hormones affecting them, but I know better.

Last night, I woke up to the sound of static. It wasn’t coming from the TV or the radio—it was coming from my phone, which was on the nightstand, its screen glowing with a strange, grey light. I picked it up, and the static grew louder, and I heard a voice, faint but unmistakable: my mother’s. She said my name, then a string of garbled words that I could barely make out, but I caught the phrase ‘he isn’t what he seems.’ Then the static cut off, and the screen went black.

I tried to call the father again this morning, desperate for answers. Four rings, then a click, but this time, instead of silence, I heard a deep, guttural whisper on the other end: ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ My blood ran cold. I hung up and tried to call my best friend, but my phone wouldn’t let me—it kept redirecting to a voicemail that played her screams. When I finally got through, she was fine, but she told me she had been feeling a presence in her apartment for days, as if someone was watching her through the walls.

I’m scared now, more than I’ve ever been. I think my mother is trying to warn me, but whatever is on the other end of that phone is not her. It’s something that feeds on fear, and it’s been growing stronger the closer I get to my due date. I’ve started sleeping with a rosary in my hand, even though I’m not religious. The dogs won’t come near me, and I’ve started seeing a tall, thin figure in my peripheral vision, always just out of sight. Last night, I saw it in the mirror, standing behind me, its face a hollow void.

I don’t know who to turn to. The father is unreachable, my friends think I’m having pregnancy hallucinations, and the only one who ever made me feel safe was my mother, and she’s gone. Or at least, I thought she was. Last night, I had a dream where she was sitting at the edge of my bed, and she looked young and healthy, just like before she got sick. She reached out and touched my belly, and I felt a warmth spread through me. ‘Don’t trust the phone,’ she said. ‘He’s not the father. And he’s not dead.’ I woke up screaming, and the dogs were howling in the other room.

I’m going to leave this town. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I have to get away from that phone, that static, that thing that’s been circling my life like a shark. I’m writing this down, hoping that someone, somewhere, will read it and understand that the paranormal isn’t always about some spooky house or a lost soul. Sometimes, it’s about the things we carry inside us, and the secrets that refuse to stay buried. And when I put my pen down, I’ll smash that phone into a thousand pieces, and I’ll pray that the static finally stops.