Every Friday at exactly 3:03 am, my phone rings.

Same number. No caller ID. No ringtone, just a soft hum, the kind that buzzes straight through your ribs.

And it’s always—Always—my brother’s voice.

The only thing is, he had been dead.

A year ago, my brother had allegedly died in a car accident, only his body was never recovered.

That’s when the calls started happening. And every time I answered I heard three things, a name, a place, and a warning. Time and time again. Same name, same place, different warnings.

As if it wasn’t strange enough, the person my brother mentioned during the calls didn’t exist. Neither did the place. So everyday for the past year, I would sit on the couch in my small apartment trying to decipher any possible hidden messages my brother was trying to send me.

Today though, the last Friday of the month, was diffrent. At exactly 3:03 am, my phone rang. I picked it up. This time, there was no name, no place, no warning. Just my brother’s voice saying in a mysterious tone, “I’m only a

call away.” Before hanging up.

That massage had been even more vague than the ones before. And whatever he meant by that, surely didn’t help lead me to any clues on why he had faked his death the day before the ceremony.