My new phone works great! No problems there. Holding it, feeling its limitless possibilities within my fingertips is simply sublime. You know the feeling, right? That new phone feeling. I’d be the envy of my friends, if I had any.

Keeping my old phone as backup was a terrible mistake.

You see, both my parents died last year. It was tragic. A couple months later my best (and only) friend David dropped dead while jogging. Heart attack. He was thirty-six and strong as an ox. Strange times indeed.

I became numb. Buying a shiny new phone seemed a healthy distraction from the drudgeries of everyday life. I spent day and night setting it up, discovering its seemingly limitless possibilities. For the first time in years, it felt good to be alive. Life was getting back to normal.

Until my old phone started receiving text messages from the dead.

DING.

My old phone lit up suddenly:

MESSAGE ARRIVED.

“That’s impassible.”

The SIM card was removed. The phone was disengaged. Yet, like a ghost in a graveyard, my father’s number appeared. I read his text aloud. I wish I hadn’t.

C U SOON DANNY BOY!

The room chilled. Drops of ice dripped down my spine. My father never used his cell phone, even when he was alive. This was literally his first text. And he’s dead. My fingers quivered across the screen, searching for a response that never came.

“Must be a scam,” I said boorishly, shaking my head in bewilderment. The phone returned to the junk drawer, and I went about my Sunday business.

Except, my mind kept returning to the phone. Clearly, it was hacked. Someone was phishing me. But how? If only David was here, he’d know what to do.

I was flooded with grief. My family was gone, and I was all alone. Yes, I had some ‘work friends’, but outside of work they were merely acquaintances.

DING.

My heart fell to the floor, my mouth desert-dry.

MESSAGE ARRIVED.

I read the message, expecting my deceased father to be announcing his arrival. Except, that’s not what happened. Still, his message shocked me to the core:

U R DEAD.

Those words danced like daggers around my brain. Reality shattered. Paranoia nestled in nicely. A sickly feeling was stirring in the pit of my stomach. I was shaking profusely. Reluctantly, I dropped the phone and retreated to the basement, where I binge-watched Peaky Blinders, and drank copious amounts of alcohol.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Why didn’t I throw out the stupid phone? And that’s a fair question. But logic rarely arrives under duress. I’ve cherished that old phone for years, letting go wasn’t easy.

Besides, texts from dead people are creepy, but they can’t hurt me, right?

Friday arrived like a bad habit. The hectic work week stole most of my attention; there was little-to-no time left worrying about haunted text messages from my dead father. I tried my best to ignore it. The following Sunday left me fatally exhausted and unprepared for what would come next.

DING.

DING.

DING.

I could hear the phone buzzing from the basement, which was odd, since it was on silent mode. Not only that, but its batteries were as dead as my parents. There’s no way that phone should be receiving texts. SIM card or no SIM card.

Like a soon-to-be-dead-person in a horror flick marching toward their inevitable demise, I crept across the creaking floors toward the junk drawer, and retrieved the wretched old phone. With eyes like razor blades, I read the newly-arrived messages. They were all from one source: My dead mother.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I read her messages:

DANNY IS THAT U?

POPS IS SIK

PLEEZ HELLP

“This can’t be happening,” I cried. “This can’t be real.”

Except it was. Real as rain, as my mother would say. Only my immediate family called my father Pops. This had to be real. That night I cried myself into a coma, until the darkness washed over me, and I succumbed to sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night I was jolted awake:

DING.

I screamed bloody murder. Beside me, beaming from my bedside table, was my old phone, which was odd considering I don’t remember leaving it there.

MESSAGE ARRIVED.

Pops’ number appeared.

I tapped the serrated screen, and his newly-arrived message appeared:

EREH NWOD DAED LLA ERA EW

I shook my head, rubbing my weary eyes. The words were jumbled, making no sense whatsoever. I said a silent prayer, longing for the return of my sanity. Then I spied the message via the bedside mirror, and cringed. Those wicked words came to life:

WE ARE ALL DEAD DOWN HERE

I stared at my phone for what seemed an eternity, feeling sick all over.

DING.

My heart exploded. Was this nightmare ever going to end?

C U SOON DANNY BOY ;-)

Anger came swiftly. Something inside me snapped. I jumped out of bed and stomped the phone into a million pieces, reveling in its destruction. Then I tossed its shattered remains into the trash bin. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as my mother would say.

My life has been cursed ever since.

The next day, my alarm failed to wake me up, and I was late for work. Later that week I got a flat tire, and was again late for work. The entire week was teeming with catastrophes. I couldn’t focus. My stress level was through the roof. My sanity was hanging off a cliff. Work put me on probation. One more mishap and I’d be unemployed.

Sunday was a Me Day. A day of relaxation. Beer and baseball, pizza and chicken wings. Just like old times. The beer was refreshing, and went down easy. The couch was a reliable friend, and welcomed me with seated cushions. Better yet, the Blue Jays were whooping the Yanks into oblivion. Things were looking up for the first time in weeks.

Then came a knock at the door.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

I live in a remote suburban neighborhood, with a ‘No Soliciting’ sign parked out front. Nobody comes to the door. Not since my loved ones passed away.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

“Hold yer friggin’ horses!” I shouted, loud enough to be heard.

As I inched toward the door, my legs felt like weighted stones, dragging me into the depths of hell. Something bad was lurking outside my front door. I just knew it.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

I couldn’t believe it. Who would be so rude? From downstairs, the announcers were throwing a tantrum. The Yankees hit a grand slam. Tie game.

The door swung open. My hands crunched into fists.

Nobody was there.

I swore like a trucker on amphetamines. Someone was screwing with me. Someone, or something. And I didn’t appreciate it. On my way inside, I spotted something poking out of the mailbox:

My old phone.

Suddenly, the world stopped moving. The air turned thick and stale. Was someone watching me? Probably, yes. I imagined myself being part of some unholy prank, committed by God-who-knows, for reasons I don’t understand. By now I was submerged in a dreadful mix of loneliness and paranoia. Oh, how I pined for my loved ones. Someone to confide in.

Cautiously, I reached into the mailbox. My old phone was haphazardly glued together, like the phone of Frankenstein.

Gretel, my nosy neighbor, strolled by, walking her dog. She was giving me a cynical look. I was about to ask if she’d seen anyone prowling about, when her measly mutt spotted a squirrel, and shot off like a firecracker, and she disappeared down the sidewalk, without a second glance.

Soon I was back on the couch, cold beer in my hand, watching the Blue Jays spoil their lead. Damn Yankees. I drank. The alcohol was keeping me cool. For the time being, at least. All the while, my eyes kept darting toward the old phone, daring it to ding. I didn’t wait long.

DING.

My mother’s name appeared.

DANNY PLEEEZ HELLP!!!

Grief swept through me like a river of despair. I was completely unhinged. If I had a pistol, I’d put it in my mouth, and all this would be over. As the final score appeared on the TV, 8-7 Yankees win, an idea sprung to mind. It was stupid and dangerous, but that never stopped me before. Besides, it just might work.

I clicked reply:

Hi Mom. How are you?

For an eternity, I stared at the screen, afraid of what would come next.

DING.

Her response was disturbingly brief:

BEWARE.

A bomb went off inside my brain. I lost all control. I began bawling my eyes out, not even realizing it. Treacherously, I typed:

Beware what?

DING.

DEATH.

She was saying everything and nothing at all. Time to change gears.

How is Pops?

Sorrow as deep as a well seeped into my soul. Nothing could’ve prepared me for what came next.

DING.

It’s not everyday your dead mother sends warnings from beyond the grave. But I was skeptical. You see, my parents died in a horrific car crash. While I was driving. Although I left the scene unscathed, my parents perished. Watching my father’s head roll onto the snow-crusted highway, only to be run over by a transport truck, still haunts my dreams. I can’t rid myself of that awful image, no matter how hard I try. My mother died next to me, blood leaking from every orifice of her battered body.

POPS IS MAAAD AT YOU.

With shaky movements, I quickly responded:

Tell Pops I’m sorry.

All night I waited for her response. Eventually, after finishing off two six packs of Coors Banquet, I slept, only to have my bazaar of broken dreams come grinding to a halt, sometime in the dead of night.

DING.

Wearily, I crawled toward the old phone, whimpering like a dirty dog.

JOIN US.

My mother’s maligned message put me over the edge; two words that stole my breath, shaking the very foundations of my soul. I wanted to weep, but the river of tears was dry. I wanted to smash the disconsolate device into a million pieces, but I’d already done that. I was at a crossroads. Oh, how I longed for David. He’d know what to do.

“Then why don’t you call him?”

My heart stopped. Where did that voice come from? Maybe it came from me. Or maybe my house was haunted. This would certainly explain a lot.

Either way, the voice was right, and I knew it.

Using the battered old phone, I called David, not sure what, if anything, would happen. It went straight to his voicemail. I leaned in, not wanting to miss a word:

“I can’t come to the phone right now,” David said somberly. “I’m dead. Danny, if that’s you, hang pictures of your parents around the house. And give them offerings. You MUST make offerings to the dead. Once a day.”

Click.

David’s voice lingered long in my mind’s eye. Offerings of what?

DING.

David’s follow-up text appeared without words, just emojis of food and drink, hearts and flowers. Too scared to reply, I said a silent prayer, thanking him, then I retrieved a box of family photos from the storage bin in the garage, and placed them strategically throughout my home, putting one in each room. These were my mother’s pictures. She’d kept every photograph, test, trophy – you name it – from my childhood.

The following week was spent collecting food and flowers for my offerings. I left them close to their respected pictures each night before bed. I even left some for David, whom I owed a lifetime of gratitude.

It worked.

Unfortunately, my laziness knows no bounds. It wasn’t long before my offerings became less frequent. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months.

My dead parents were not impressed.

Apparently, the dead are irascible.

…

My dead mother’s latest text arrived like a bad dream:

JOIN US DANNY. U R ALREADY DEAD.

I’ve stopped fighting her. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am dead. Maybe I died in the accident, after all. What exactly is death anyway? Does anyone know? Asking for a friend.

Surely, I’m not the only person receiving messages from dead loved ones. (I shudder at the thought.) Anyone out there with similar experiences? I’d like to hear them. We can swap stories.

The dead are relentless in their quest at being heard. I’ve learned this. And they will stop at nothing to get what they want.

And what do they want, you ask?

To be heard. And for us to join them in the Great Beyond.

So I keep my old phone with me at all times. My dead parents told me to, and I’m afraid of disobeying them. What will become of that insidious device? Only time will tell. Or should I say:

Only time will text.

DING.