When I Visited My Fiancé’s Grave, Pregnant and Alone, I Found a Strange Phone — I Blacked Out After Picking It Up

I always dreamed of having a family. Growing up in foster homes, I would watch other kids get picked up by their parents, holding hands and laughing. I’d read books about loving families and wonder if they were real. Was there a place where people cared that much about each other?

Then I met Robert. He was everything I ever wanted in a person—kind, funny, and loving. But more than that, he had this big, warm family. From the moment I met them, they welcomed me in like I belonged. Sunday dinners at his parents’ house were something I’d only seen in movies.

“Pass the potatoes, honey,” Robert’s mom would say, her eyes soft and warm. She’d smile at me like I was her own daughter.

Robert’s dad, a tall, sturdy man with a booming laugh, would wink at me from across the table. “Another slice of pie? Don’t tell your mother, but I saved you an extra piece.” He’d slide the plate over with a grin.

These moments felt like a dream. I’d never had this—a family who cared, who laughed together, who made me feel safe. And with Robert, it was more than I ever dared to hope for. He loved me in a way I thought only existed in fairy tales.

Then, one evening, as we sat on a bench in the park, Robert took my hands in his. His eyes sparkled with excitement.

“I have something to ask you,” he said, his voice trembling just a bit.

“What is it?” I asked, feeling my heart race.

He took a deep breath and pulled out a small, blue velvet box. “Will you marry me?”

Tears filled my eyes as I whispered, “Yes, yes, yes!”

Soon after, I found out I was pregnant. Twins. We were thrilled. We talked for hours about baby names, about the kind of parents we would be.

But then, everything changed.

It was a Thursday afternoon when I got the call. Robert had been in an accident. My hands shook as I drove to the hospital, praying, begging whatever powers existed to let him be okay. But when I arrived, a doctor met me with a somber expression.

“I’m so sorry,” he said gently. “There was nothing we could do.”

The days that followed were a blur. Robert’s parents arranged everything so quickly. The funeral was over almost as soon as it began. I stood at the back, watching as they lowered him into the ground. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I wanted to scream, to cry, but I felt paralyzed, like I was stuck in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

After the service, I found Robert’s mom in the church hall. Her eyes were red and puffy. She looked at me with a kind of sadness I’d never seen before.

“Why didn’t you let me see him?” I asked, my voice shaking. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “He was… he wasn’t himself. I couldn’t let you see him like that. It would have been too hard.”

Weeks passed, and I found myself drawn to the cemetery more and more. It became a ritual, my way of keeping him close. I would sit by his grave and talk to him, tell him about the twins, about how much I missed him.

One afternoon, I was kneeling by his headstone, whispering about the latest baby kicks, when I heard it—a faint ringing. It was so out of place in the silence that it made my skin prickle.

I looked around, my heart pounding. Then I saw it—a phone, lying in the grass, right by Robert’s grave. My breath caught as I reached for it. It looked ordinary, but something about it felt off, like it shouldn’t be there.

I picked it up, and my heart almost stopped when I saw the caller ID.

It said, “Robert.”

I stared at it, my hands shaking. This couldn’t be real. But then I heard his voice.

“Hey, baby,” he said, like nothing had happened.

I gasped, dropping the phone. My vision blurred, and then everything went black.

When I woke up, I was in the hospital. My head throbbed, and there was a hollow feeling in my chest. Sitting next to my bed was Robert’s mother. She looked pale, her eyes filled with something I couldn’t place.

“Did you hear him too?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

I froze, confusion and fear washing over me. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

“Did you hear him too?” Robert’s mother asked again, her voice trembling.

I stared at her, my heart racing. I nodded slowly, still trying to make sense of what had happened. How could it be Robert? I saw him buried. I knew he was gone. But the voice—it was him. It was so real.

“We need to go to the police,” she said, her voice firm now. “Something’s not right.”

We went the next morning. Sitting in the small, crowded station, I felt numb. Robert’s mother spoke to the officer at the desk, explaining everything—the accident, the funeral, the phone call. The officer listened, his face serious. He didn’t dismiss us like I thought he might.

“Ma’am,” he said, leaning forward. “You’re telling me you received a phone call from your deceased son?”

“Yes,” she said, clutching her purse tightly. “And so did she.” She glanced at me.

I nodded, my hands shaking in my lap. “It was his voice. I know it sounds crazy, but it was him.”

The officer paused, looking at us thoughtfully. Then he called for a detective, and we were led to a quieter room. We explained everything again. The detective, a tall man with kind eyes, took detailed notes. He didn’t interrupt, just let us talk.

After listening to our story, the detective tapped his pen against his notepad. “I understand this is difficult, but we need to look into this thoroughly. It’s possible someone’s trying to manipulate you, given the circumstances. Do you still have the phone?”

I nodded, handing it over. “Please, find out who did this.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” he assured us. “But it might take some time.”

Days turned into weeks. I felt like I was living in a fog. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Every time the phone rang, my heart would jump, half hoping it was Robert, half terrified it might be.

One evening, as I sat in the living room, Robert’s mother called. Her voice was shaky.

“The police called me today. They found something,” she said.

“What?” I asked, my heart pounding.

“We need to go to the station. Now.”

We drove in silence, both of us lost in our thoughts. At the station, the detective met us, his face grim.

“We’ve been able to trace the calls,” he said. “They’re coming from a house not far from here. And it belongs to someone named Ursula.”

The name hit me like a punch to the stomach. “Ursula? Robert’s ex-girlfriend?”

He nodded. “We’ve been investigating her for a while. She’s… well, she’s not well. She became obsessed with Robert after he ended things with her. We believe she’s behind this.”

I felt like the floor was falling away beneath me. “But how? It was his voice. It sounded just like him.”

The detective sighed. “She used advanced voice-altering software. It can mimic someone’s voice almost perfectly. She’s been manipulating you, trying to make you believe he was still alive.”

I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “Why? Why would she do this?”