After I Died My Daughter Dialed His Number Novels & Stories

I need to give him a call. parents - dead yeah I mean I- what? WHAT? they are dead? this can't be true. no, no, this is false. they are dead because of me. Nick's pov The unending ringing of my fucking phone woke me up. I extended my hands to feel her but just like the first time she has vanished. I should be glad I didn't have to kick her out myself but fuck I'm not. next time I have her. She won't be able to walk.

I push up to my feet, calling the number and waiting for anyone to pick. When the other side of the line picks, London's babble is incoherent in the background. "Daddy? Daddy, you must hate me," she cries hard into the phone. "No, never. Why do you say that?" I demand holding my breathe. "Because, I just killed a man," she says. The line goes death.

Who would have thought that I, dead for so many days, could still cause such delicious chaos in his perfectly controlled world? He pulled out his phone and tried to call me, his fingers jabbing at the screen with increasing force. Five calls in a row, all met with silence. This only fueled his anger further. He paced around the house like a caged animal, cursing at the air, kicking furniture, and punching walls. Though I was already dead, my heart—or whatever remained of it in this ghostly form—ached painfully as I watched him rage about the inconvenience I'd caused rather than grieve the daughter he'd lost.

"Hello, mommy. Are you there?" The phone was still pressed to my ear but my son's voice was now a far away echo. My whole attention was now on Jared and the ward my daughter had died in. Pain hit even harder and made breathing a bit difficult. Without meaning to, I removed the phone from my ear and ended the call, my watery gaze steadfast on Jared. Pocketing my phone, I stepped forward on shaky legs and a bleeding heart while steadying my breath.

I asked in disappointment. Before Dante could find words, my phone rang. It was an unsaved number, but I didn’t even think twice about it before picking up. “Is this Autumn Taylor?” A male voice asked. “Yes, this is she,” I answered. “Who are you?” I asked. “Your dad is dead,” he stated instead. And I froze in shock.

His voice was lowered, carrying that damned emotion is worked so hard to never hear from anyone ever again… pity. “We already did that.” He said. “Remember? Nothing showed up.” “Search it again.” I retorted in a clipped tone. “Must have missed something.” He sighed deeply. “Your son is dead. Grieve him.” I opened my mouth to speak again but the line went dead. I pulled my phone away, blinking slowly at the screen. Rage slowly slithered up my spine as I dialed his number again. “The number you’re trying to reach is not-“

"Are you okay?" I looked at him, the man who had just murdered our child. "Okay?" My voice was a raw, broken whisper. "You're asking me if I'm okay?" "The pup is a regrettable loss," he said, his tone clinical and detached. "But Tessa's safety was paramount." I closed my eyes, unable to look at his face any longer. Just then, my phone, which had been placed on a nearby table, started ringing. It was the hospital. "Is this Sophia?" a doctor's grave voice said on the other end. "I'm so sorry… your father passed away a few moments ago. He kept asking for you, but… we ran out of time."

To look him in the eye and ask why. My phone suddenly started ringing. I looked at the screen. An unknown number. My stomach dropped. I didn’t even think before answering. “Hello?” I said quietly. There was silence for a few seconds. Then I heard his voice. My father’s voice. “I see you’re alive,” he said, sounding amused. “That means your mother did her part well.” My breath hitched. “Why are you calling me?” “Because I’m bored,” he said coldly. “And because you’re going to do exactly what I say if you don’t want more people dying.”

My parents listened to those desperate calls with nothing but irritation, dismissing each one as theatrics, an inconvenience unworthy of their time. My brother snarled over the phone, “Then just die already!” So I did. In the end, it was my three-year-old daughter who made the final call—using her smartwatch to video my mother, live-streaming the freezer where my severed head lay. Now, my spirit watches from above as they all, one by one, begin to unravel. ... I knew I was finally going to die. So I called my family. My mom answered. She was in the middle of a face mask, her voice muffled and edged with impatience. “What is it now, Elena?”

"Her room." "Show me." "Mom—" "Show me," she repeated, her voice harder now. I looked at her face—confused, denying what she was hearing. "Mom," I said, struggling to get the words out. "My daughter is dead. Ava is gone." * * *