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My husband keeps texting me. He’s been dead for 5 years.
Drew and I had been married for 2 years when he got in the accident. Head-on collision. Drunk driver. Declared dead at the scene.
That was back in 2020. Grieving him through the pandemic, completely isolated, was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But I worked through it with my parents, with his mom. I’ve even started dating again.
But then the texts started.
I got the first one while I was on a date at some overfancy Italian place. A text, from Drew’s number. It was blank. Like someone had just hit the space bar and hit “send.”
I got the next one a few days later, in the evening, while I was curled up with a book. It just had a period. “.”
At first, I thought it was a prank, as cruel as that would be. Or maybe it was well-intentioned, by an older person or someone on the spectrum. Maybe they thought the texts would make me happy. I asked around, but no one knew. I thought about going to the police—but there was nothing threatening in them. Just strings of weird punctuation.
*Maybe it’s a glitch,* I thought. Maybe the system had reactivated his number by accident and was sending bits of code to me.
But the texts seemed to have a pattern. They were often sent when I was on a date, or getting ready for one. It seemed *just* enough to be more than coincidental. I tried telling myself I was being paranoid, that it was all just chance.
As the anniversary of his death approached, though, the texts increased in frequency. They went from one or two a week to one a day. “…” “.,.” “,,:” “,…….”. Just nonsensical punctuation, every time.
I was starting to get desensitized to them. The first one had made me cry. Now, they just annoyed me.
On the anniversary of Drew’s death, though, the texts increased tenfold.
I got five of them before noon.
Over fifteen in the afternoon. And as the time of his death approached—9:11 PM—they came in faster and faster.
*This is way more than coincidence.*
*Someone is fucking with me.*
I went to the police. They said they’d be able to trace where the texts were coming from, but they’d need some time to get in touch with the cell company. *“Probably just a scammer,”* the officer had said, even though I told him everything. *“There are tons of scams now, with how bad the economy is...”*
*“But they’re not trying to get anything out of me,”* I’d told them. *“And they’re texting me way more today than any other day. On the day my husband died.”*
*“I’m sorry for your loss,”* the officer had said, in a detached tone. *“We’ll get in touch with you when we know more. Okay?”*
So what else could I do?
I went back home to start the tradition I did every year. At 7 o’clock I put on his favorite movie, *Stranger Than Fiction,* and opened a bottle of wine. I patted the seat next to me, as if gesturing an invisible him to sit down.
I liked to talk to him. Pretend he was actually sitting there with me.
“Maggie Gyllenhaal is so cute,” I told the empty spot. “I’d totally date her if I wasn’t married to you. And if, you know, she wasn’t a movie star.”
“Will Ferrell is *so* young in this. He looks like a *baby.”*
“Haha, he’s so awkward. She totally hates him.”
My phone pinged.
**“…;**”
I frowned at it.
I decided to call the police station again. They told me they didn’t have any news.
I looked at the empty spot.
“I miss you,” I said, sucking in a deep breath. “I miss you so much.”
I looked at the phone, waiting for it to ping. A small part of me wishing it would, like he’d heard me.
*What if the texts really are Drew?*
*Somehow?*
I thought of that Twilight Zone episode. Where the old woman keeps getting phone calls, and then they find a downed telephone pole, the wires dangling over her husband’s grave. Was this sort of the 2000s equivalent of that? Had some spooky ghost EMF jammed the wireless cell communications?
But the phone didn’t ping. Of course it didn’t. This wasn’t his ghost trying to contact me. This was someone *fucking* with me, someone playing a sick game.
The only answer I’d get was from the police.
I got up and refilled my wine glass. But my hands were shaking as I poured. As I tried to set it back on the counter, I dropped it—
*Crash.*
The glass bottle shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. Merlot wine like blood pooled on the floor. *“Fuck,”* I whispered. Fighting tears, I got a garbage bag and bent down to pick up the pieces—
*“Ow!”*
The piece I’d picked up had sliced right into my thumb. Never clean shattered glass while you’re tipsy and crying, I guess. Cursing, I stood up and ran my thumb under the faucet, staining the water red—
*Ping.*
I glanced over at my phone, sitting on the couch armrest.
I turned off the faucet.
Made my way over to it.
My heart plummeted as I saw the text.
**“: )”**
Not a blank text.
Not a string of nonsense.
A fucking *smiley face.*
After I’d just cut myself.
And not any smiley face. A colon, then a space, then a parenthesis—*exactly* how Drew made his smiley faces. He never wanted autocorrect or Gchat or whatever program to turn it into an emoji or actual smiley face.
*Someone is watching me.*
*And they really,* really *want to fuck with me.*
I ran over to the kitchen window, tiptoeing around the glass. I pulled the curtains shut over the sink. Then I ran around the house, checking every lock.
I called the police. “I think they’re watching me,” I whispered.
“What?”
“They sent me a smiley face. *Right after* I cut myself.”
“Okay… that’s probably just a coincidence—”
“They’ve never sent a smiley face before! Or *anything* other than nonsense!”
“Okay, calm down. You know what? I’m going to get in touch with the cell company right away. I’ll call you back in about… twenty minutes. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I glanced at the clock.
8:59 PM.
12 minutes before Drew died.
I walked back to the couch, blood blooming on the paper towel wrapped around my finger. The phone was going off like crazy now. *Ping.* **“…….”** *Ping.* **“..:;..:::”** *Ping.*
“Shut up,” I hissed.
I looked at the empty spot.
The paused frame of Maggie Gyllenhaal and Will Ferrell looking at each other.
*Ping. Ping. Ping.*
*“SHUT UP!”*
9:07 PM.
*Ping ping ping ping—*
I picked it up—
One word was mixed in with the nonsense.
**…..:::;;;…**
**RUN**
**;;;,,,,,,,**
**……::::…..**
**RUN**
**:::::::**
**….**
**RUN**
**…::::;;;;;---**
*Pingpingpingping—*
The barrage of texts was cut off by my ringtone.
The police station. Finally. “Hello?” I asked, my voice wavering.
*“Get out of the house.”*
His voice was low, coming through the speaker.
*“The texts are coming from inside your house.”*
All the blood drained out of my face. I leapt up and scrambled towards the front door—
Hands pulled me back roughly from behind. I fell flat on my face. Pain shot up my back. I looked up, blinking… and found myself looking up at Drew’s mother.
*“Whore,”* she snarled, spit spraying on my face. Her foot collided with my side as she kicked me. “You think you can just pretend like he didn’t exist, don’t you? As soon as he’s dead, you just go off and start dating again.”
“It’s… been… five… years,” I gasped.
“You never really loved him, did you?!” she shrieked.
I tried to scramble up. She kicked me again. I coughed blood onto the carpet. “Stop,” I whimpered.
“You’re nothing but a—”
The door slammed open.
A police officer was standing in the doorway.
\*\*\*
The police had enough evidence to arrest Drew’s mother. She’d been watching me, stalking me, sending the nonsensical texts to scare me. Security camera footage from various restaurants and establishments even showed she followed me to several different dates. She didn’t even have to break into the house—Drew had given her a spare key, when he was alive.
She’d had Drew’s old number reactivated, and was sending me texts all the while, hoping I’d be spooked and stop dating. Stop moving forward. Stay with her in her cocoon of grief.
She didn’t see all the nights I’d cried myself to sleep after those dates. Wishing it was *him* next to me, knowing no one else would ever measure up.
One thing, however, remains unexplained.
The police, when they confiscated her phone, said she only ever sent symbols and smiley faces.
She never sent the word “RUN.”
Sometimes I wonder if those texts were from Drew.
Watching over me, making sure I made it out alive.
#entertainment
source
Drew and I had been married for 2 years when he got in the accident. Head-on collision. Drunk driver. Declared dead at the scene.
That was back in 2020. Grieving him through the pandemic, completely isolated, was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But I worked through it with my parents, with his mom. I’ve even started dating again.
But then the texts started.
I got the first one while I was on a date at some overfancy Italian place. A text, from Drew’s number. It was blank. Like someone had just hit the space bar and hit “send.”
I got the next one a few days later, in the evening, while I was curled up with a book. It just had a period. “.”
At first, I thought it was a prank, as cruel as that would be. Or maybe it was well-intentioned, by an older person or someone on the spectrum. Maybe they thought the texts would make me happy. I asked around, but no one knew. I thought about going to the police—but there was nothing threatening in them. Just strings of weird punctuation.
*Maybe it’s a glitch,* I thought. Maybe the system had reactivated his number by accident and was sending bits of code to me.
But the texts seemed to have a pattern. They were often sent when I was on a date, or getting ready for one. It seemed *just* enough to be more than coincidental. I tried telling myself I was being paranoid, that it was all just chance.
As the anniversary of his death approached, though, the texts increased in frequency. They went from one or two a week to one a day. “…” “.,.” “,,:” “,…….”. Just nonsensical punctuation, every time.
I was starting to get desensitized to them. The first one had made me cry. Now, they just annoyed me.
On the anniversary of Drew’s death, though, the texts increased tenfold.
I got five of them before noon.
Over fifteen in the afternoon. And as the time of his death approached—9:11 PM—they came in faster and faster.
*This is way more than coincidence.*
*Someone is fucking with me.*
I went to the police. They said they’d be able to trace where the texts were coming from, but they’d need some time to get in touch with the cell company. *“Probably just a scammer,”* the officer had said, even though I told him everything. *“There are tons of scams now, with how bad the economy is...”*
*“But they’re not trying to get anything out of me,”* I’d told them. *“And they’re texting me way more today than any other day. On the day my husband died.”*
*“I’m sorry for your loss,”* the officer had said, in a detached tone. *“We’ll get in touch with you when we know more. Okay?”*
So what else could I do?
I went back home to start the tradition I did every year. At 7 o’clock I put on his favorite movie, *Stranger Than Fiction,* and opened a bottle of wine. I patted the seat next to me, as if gesturing an invisible him to sit down.
I liked to talk to him. Pretend he was actually sitting there with me.
“Maggie Gyllenhaal is so cute,” I told the empty spot. “I’d totally date her if I wasn’t married to you. And if, you know, she wasn’t a movie star.”
“Will Ferrell is *so* young in this. He looks like a *baby.”*
“Haha, he’s so awkward. She totally hates him.”
My phone pinged.
**“…;**”
I frowned at it.
I decided to call the police station again. They told me they didn’t have any news.
I looked at the empty spot.
“I miss you,” I said, sucking in a deep breath. “I miss you so much.”
I looked at the phone, waiting for it to ping. A small part of me wishing it would, like he’d heard me.
*What if the texts really are Drew?*
*Somehow?*
I thought of that Twilight Zone episode. Where the old woman keeps getting phone calls, and then they find a downed telephone pole, the wires dangling over her husband’s grave. Was this sort of the 2000s equivalent of that? Had some spooky ghost EMF jammed the wireless cell communications?
But the phone didn’t ping. Of course it didn’t. This wasn’t his ghost trying to contact me. This was someone *fucking* with me, someone playing a sick game.
The only answer I’d get was from the police.
I got up and refilled my wine glass. But my hands were shaking as I poured. As I tried to set it back on the counter, I dropped it—
*Crash.*
The glass bottle shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. Merlot wine like blood pooled on the floor. *“Fuck,”* I whispered. Fighting tears, I got a garbage bag and bent down to pick up the pieces—
*“Ow!”*
The piece I’d picked up had sliced right into my thumb. Never clean shattered glass while you’re tipsy and crying, I guess. Cursing, I stood up and ran my thumb under the faucet, staining the water red—
*Ping.*
I glanced over at my phone, sitting on the couch armrest.
I turned off the faucet.
Made my way over to it.
My heart plummeted as I saw the text.
**“: )”**
Not a blank text.
Not a string of nonsense.
A fucking *smiley face.*
After I’d just cut myself.
And not any smiley face. A colon, then a space, then a parenthesis—*exactly* how Drew made his smiley faces. He never wanted autocorrect or Gchat or whatever program to turn it into an emoji or actual smiley face.
*Someone is watching me.*
*And they really,* really *want to fuck with me.*
I ran over to the kitchen window, tiptoeing around the glass. I pulled the curtains shut over the sink. Then I ran around the house, checking every lock.
I called the police. “I think they’re watching me,” I whispered.
“What?”
“They sent me a smiley face. *Right after* I cut myself.”
“Okay… that’s probably just a coincidence—”
“They’ve never sent a smiley face before! Or *anything* other than nonsense!”
“Okay, calm down. You know what? I’m going to get in touch with the cell company right away. I’ll call you back in about… twenty minutes. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I glanced at the clock.
8:59 PM.
12 minutes before Drew died.
I walked back to the couch, blood blooming on the paper towel wrapped around my finger. The phone was going off like crazy now. *Ping.* **“…….”** *Ping.* **“..:;..:::”** *Ping.*
“Shut up,” I hissed.
I looked at the empty spot.
The paused frame of Maggie Gyllenhaal and Will Ferrell looking at each other.
*Ping. Ping. Ping.*
*“SHUT UP!”*
9:07 PM.
*Ping ping ping ping—*
I picked it up—
One word was mixed in with the nonsense.
**…..:::;;;…**
**RUN**
**;;;,,,,,,,**
**……::::…..**
**RUN**
**:::::::**
**….**
**RUN**
**…::::;;;;;---**
*Pingpingpingping—*
The barrage of texts was cut off by my ringtone.
The police station. Finally. “Hello?” I asked, my voice wavering.
*“Get out of the house.”*
His voice was low, coming through the speaker.
*“The texts are coming from inside your house.”*
All the blood drained out of my face. I leapt up and scrambled towards the front door—
Hands pulled me back roughly from behind. I fell flat on my face. Pain shot up my back. I looked up, blinking… and found myself looking up at Drew’s mother.
*“Whore,”* she snarled, spit spraying on my face. Her foot collided with my side as she kicked me. “You think you can just pretend like he didn’t exist, don’t you? As soon as he’s dead, you just go off and start dating again.”
“It’s… been… five… years,” I gasped.
“You never really loved him, did you?!” she shrieked.
I tried to scramble up. She kicked me again. I coughed blood onto the carpet. “Stop,” I whimpered.
“You’re nothing but a—”
The door slammed open.
A police officer was standing in the doorway.
\*\*\*
The police had enough evidence to arrest Drew’s mother. She’d been watching me, stalking me, sending the nonsensical texts to scare me. Security camera footage from various restaurants and establishments even showed she followed me to several different dates. She didn’t even have to break into the house—Drew had given her a spare key, when he was alive.
She’d had Drew’s old number reactivated, and was sending me texts all the while, hoping I’d be spooked and stop dating. Stop moving forward. Stay with her in her cocoon of grief.
She didn’t see all the nights I’d cried myself to sleep after those dates. Wishing it was *him* next to me, knowing no one else would ever measure up.
One thing, however, remains unexplained.
The police, when they confiscated her phone, said she only ever sent symbols and smiley faces.
She never sent the word “RUN.”
Sometimes I wonder if those texts were from Drew.
Watching over me, making sure I made it out alive.
#entertainment
source
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