Messages from me

The first voicemail came from my own number.

It was my voice. Definitely mine, down to the way I clear my throat before I say anything important. "Don't take the bridge on Thursday," I said. "Take the long way. Please."

I don't remember recording it. My phone showed it as a missed call from myself, which isn't supposed to be possible. I laughed it off, mostly. On Thursday I took the long way anyway, and that afternoon a lorry went through the barrier on the bridge.

The second one came a month later. "Don't eat the chicken at Sam's party." Half the guests were in hospital by Sunday.

After that I started to trust them. They came every few weeks, always a small warning, always right. I started to think of the voice as a kind of guardian. Me, but a version that knew things.

Then the voicemails started to change.

They got shorter. The voice got tired. "Don't open the door after midnight." "Stop answering when it calls your name." I didn't know what that meant. Nothing had called my name.

Last week, one came at 3 in the morning, and my voice was a whisper. "It's learned how I sound. It's been leaving you some of these. Not all of them are me."

I sat up in bed with my heart going like a drum.

Which ones?

This morning there was a new message, calm and warm and completely like me. "Everything's fine now," I said. "It's gone. You can stop listening to the old ones. In fact, delete them. All of them. Then come downstairs, I've left something for you on the kitchen table."

I live alone.

I haven't gone downstairs. But I can hear someone moving around in the kitchen, humming the song I always hum when I'm making tea.