It had been one year since my sister, Emma, passed away in a tragic accident. Every night, I visited her grave, unable to accept that she was gone. One cold evening, as thick fog covered the cemetery, I heard a familiar whisper.
"Michael... don't leave me."
I turned around, but no one was there. The voice came again, this time from Emma's grave.
Heart pounding, I stepped closer. The ground suddenly trembled, and the old wooden cross slowly tilted. My phone lost its signal, and the air turned icy.
Then I saw her.
Emma stood beside her grave wearing the same white dress she had been buried in. Her face looked peaceful, but her dark eyes never blinked.
She stretched out her hand and whispered, "Someone is waiting behind you."
I slowly turned around. A shadowy figure stood between the graves, smiling without a face.
When I looked back, Emma had disappeared.
The next morning, the cemetery caretaker told me that many visitors had heard loved ones calling their names after midnight.
Since that night, I never visit the cemetery in the dark.
But sometimes, just before midnight, my phone rings.
The caller ID always shows one name—Emma.
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