July 10, 2025 • 18 mins
It was 3:16 am when my phone buzzed
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📹 Video!: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eIA3k3byplA
📖 Read Along!: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1l5bw1x/i_keep_getting_voicemails_from_my_daughter_she/
Check out my new books! A collection of Creepypasta compiled by some of my all time favorite authors and friends!
💀 Volume 1: http://a.co/iNqTwRZ
💀 Volume 2: http://a.co/i0O9zks
💀 Comic Book: http://a.co/2POGdNW
🧊 Chill with the Community!: https://www.thechillingapp.com/
Visit the stores!
🍵 Wife's Tea Shop: https://etsy.com/shop/IvoryMonocleTea
👕 Shirts & Stuff!: https://shop.spreadshirt.com/MrCreepyPasta/
💰 Patreon (Only if you want to kids!): https://www.patreon.com/MrCreepyPasta
Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/mrcreepypasta-s-storytime--4244348/support.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
When my daughter Emma died in two thousand and nine,
I thought the worst pain was over. I was wrong.
She was only ten, hit by a drunk driver while
riding her bike in front of our house. I don't
(00:24):
need to describe the hell that followed. I mean, if
if you lost a child, you already know it. If
you haven't, then thank whatever God you believe in. The
first voicemail came on what would have been her twenty
fourth birthday. It was three sixteen a m. And my
(00:49):
phone buzzed. I was already awake. Insomnia has been on
my shadows since we buried her eye, and I recognized
the number instantly. It was hers. We kept her phone
plan going for a while after her death, just to
hear her voice on the voicemail. Eventually we canceled it.
(01:09):
I thought we did. The message was only a few
seconds long that and then static. I sat up in
my bed. Not a glitchy AI sound, not some kind
of kid playing a prankt That was Emma, soft and confused,
(01:32):
just like she used to sound when she woke up
from a nightmare. I didn't sleep the rest of that night.
I didn't tell anyone. The next night, it happened again,
that are you still mad at me? Static? Then silence.
(02:00):
I stopped checking the messages for a few days, thinking
if I didn't listen, it would stop. But it didn't.
They came every night at three sixteen am, exactly, always
from her old number, always her voice. I finally gave
in and listened to all of them. Some of them
were whispers that I couldn't make out, some were just
some were just sobbing. One night, she said, I'm cold,
(02:29):
it's so dark here. I took the phone to the police.
The officer was sympathetic but firm, probably the scam, maybe
some kind of sick hacking, said that they'd look into it.
They never called me back. I contacted the phone company.
(02:53):
Her number had been reassigned to a teenager in Wisconsin.
I spoke to his mother. She said he hadn't used
the phone in months. He lost it and at the
same time the voicemail started. My therapist told me it
was grief, unresolved trauma, that my brain was just playing
(03:15):
tricks on me. But here's the thing. Emma said something
in her last voicemail that shattered any doubt. It was
June third, the anniversary of her death, and the message
(03:38):
was longer this time that I saw you by the bike,
I tried to yell. I waved, you looked right through me,
and then pausing. Did you pretend you couldn't see me?
(04:09):
I hadn't told anyone I visited the exact spot that day,
not my sister, not my ex wife, no one. And
I did think I saw something, a flicker in the
corner of my eye, a small figure in a blue jacket,
the same one that she was wearing that day. But
when I turned nothing was there. I told myself it
(04:32):
was my imagination that came the final message two nights ago.
It was different. It was louder and more alive. Daddy,
I'm not supposed to talk to you anymore. He's getting mad.
(04:56):
Static static called like fire. And then I heard a
new voice, not Emma's. It was deep and slow and wrong,
and it said stop looking, you'll see us soon enough,
(05:19):
and the line went dead. I smashed the phone. Yesterday,
I got a new number, new provider, burned the old
sim brand new phone, and still tonight, at exactly three
sixteen am, the phone buzzed one new voicemail.
Speaker 2 (05:48):
From Emma.
Speaker 1 (05:54):
Spent four nights, I thought, sharing this might help. I
don't know. Maybe if I released it somehow, maybe I
give its shape it, maybe that would make it stop.
(06:16):
It didn't. The voicemails still come every single night, three
sixteen am, not a minute before, not a minute after.
I used to bolt upright when it happened, heart in
my throat, breath caught. And now I just lie there
and I wait for the buzz like a ritual. I
don't listen anymore, not all the way through. I just
(06:36):
let them pile up in my inbox, collecting like dust
in a forgotten room. But last night I couldn't ignore it.
It started with Emma's voice again, soft, wavering, the way
that she used to sound when she was trying to
be brave but needed me. I'm scared, daddy, she said,
(07:01):
She's getting closer. I can't hide here much longer. And
then static, sharp and sudden. It hurt my ears to
a speaker. And then something I couldn't quite catch, a whisper,
slurred or maybe layered over itself, like multiple voices saying
the same thing out of sync. Then then I heard it,
(07:25):
a clicking, like fingernails tapping glass, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
One two, pause, one, two three. I didn't recognize the pattern,
but it felt intentional, like something trying to signal or
get my attention. And then I it just stopped dead silence.
(07:57):
I didn't sleep, I couldn't. I waited for dawn, like
it was a promise. This morning I checked the house.
Every window had scratched his thin fine marks like something
sharp had traced lines across the glass. Some of them
were so high up I needed a step ladder just
to get a closer look. I mean, I live alone,
I have no pets, no trees brushing the house, no explanation.
(08:18):
And then out front, in the grass near the road,
that road, I saw something caught on a low branch
by the ditch where the accident happened. It was a
piece of fabric, blue faded denon, torn in a pattern
(08:43):
I knew too well. I ran inside. I climbed into
the attic, yanked the old sealed storage box down with
shaking hands. Her jacket, the one she wore the day
she died. It was still inside. I kept it for
the smell of the memory, zipped in a vacuum bag,
untouched since the funeral. I opened it just to be
(09:04):
sure the tear in the shoulder matched exactly with the
one outside. It looked It looked new, like it had
just been ripped. No dirt, no weathering, no fading from sunlight,
not even not even dew fresh. It was fresh, clean fabric.
(09:26):
This was the moment I stopped pretending I could log
it my way through this tonight. Actually, just an hour ago,
something changed. It wasn't a voicemail. It was a text
from her number, just two words, come outside, no punctuation,
(09:57):
no context, just that and I won't lie. I stood
there with my phone in my hand, who had felt
like forever, my thumb hovering over the screen like I
was going to reply. My heart wasn't racing, I wasn't panicking.
There was something worse. That warmth, that aching familiarity. It
(10:27):
felt like her. It felt like those nights she used
to crawl into bed after a nightmare of curl against
my chest, her breath slow, and even as she drifted
back to sleep, I could almost feel her weight again,
like her little hand tangled in my shirt. I almost
(10:53):
opened the door, my hand it was on the knob
when a phrase someone had commented came back to me
like a jolt of old water. If she ever asked
you to go somewhere, don't. I stopped. I turned off
the porch light. I waited, and then and then I looked,
(11:23):
just a quick glance through the curtain, but I saw
something at the edge of my driveway. Small, still dressed
in a blue jacket, her size, her shape, but too still,
like like a photo, standing upright in the dark. I blinked.
(11:53):
It was gone. No sound, no movement, just the soft
hum of the street light overhead, and the sudden certainty
that something out there knew I was watching. I don't
know what this is anymore. I don't know if it's
my daughter or something that remembers her better than I do.
(12:14):
But I do know this. It wants to be let in,
and it doesn't want to be ignored. I'll update again
if I'm still here. I didn't sleep last night. I
(12:42):
don't really know why. There was no buzzing at three
sixteen am. No voicemail, no message, nothing at all. You
think I'd feel relief, but instead I felt hollow. Something
was missing, worse waiting. I sat in bed, phone in
(13:06):
my hand, screen lit. Nothing, nothing came, no notification, no
block number, no whisper of her voice, just the glow
of the lock screen and the steady tick of the
clock beside my.
Speaker 2 (13:16):
Bed, And yet the dread didn't go away.
Speaker 1 (13:27):
This morning, when I stepped out onto the porch, I
found something on the doormat us A single polaroid photo.
No envelope, no note, no sign that anyone had been
near the house, just just the photo. I stared at
(13:51):
it for a long time before I picked it up.
Something about it made my stomach twist, like like I
already knew what would be on it, like I'd already
seen it before, maybe in a dream that I'd forgotten,
or a memory I never wanted to have. There was
(14:11):
a picture of Emma's bike, the one she was riding
when she died. Except the photo wasn't old. It wasn't
from that day. I know because the grass in the
background still had the bare patches. I'd receved it just
(14:31):
a few weeks ago. My neighbor's cars in the driveway
the garbage bins tipped the same way it was yesterday
morning when the wind knocked it over. It it was recent.
The bike was propped on its kickstand at the edge
of the road, right where the accident happened. The back
we always bent. The seat was torn exactly as I
(14:52):
remember it after the crash. But we don't. We don't
have that bike anymore. We buried it along with her.
I checked the spot. There's nothing there, no tire tracks,
no bike, no photo prints anywhere else. There's grass and
(15:16):
silence and the faint smell of rain that never came inside.
I set the photo on the table and stared at
it for hours. I couldn't couldn't touch it again. My
fingers itched to flip it, but I was scared of
what might be there, And finally, finally I did. The
(15:42):
back was blank except for two words, written faintly in pencil,
not printed. They were written, and they were written in
her handwriting. I remember that broke something in me. I
(16:04):
don't know if I'm supposed to remember something, or if
she does something I bury deeper than her jacket or
the sealed boxes in the attic, something I don't. I
don't want pulled into the light. I want to believe
it's her so badly it hurts. But a memory doesn't
doesn't knock on your door, It doesn't whisper through phone lines,
(16:26):
it doesn't dig up a rusted bike and pose it
like an offering. At tonight, at exactly three sixteen am,
my phone buzzed again, not a voice, smail, FaceTime from
(16:48):
her number, and for one second, just before I declined it,
the thumbnail preview showed something something from behind me, something.
Speaker 3 (17:08):
Smiling either kids, It's me, mister creep Pasta, And I
just wanted to tell you thank you so much for
watching tonight's video or for listening to tonight's episode of
the podcast wherever you happen to do that. So if
it's like on YouTube, then you're probably, you know, watching
(17:30):
the video.
Speaker 1 (17:30):
But if it's on.
Speaker 3 (17:33):
Not then you're probably listening to the podcast like with
Spotify or Apple or something like that. But yeah, thank
you so much for listening. And as always, I want
to give a very big thank you to everybody who
supports me over at patreons patreon dot com slash mister Creepypasta.
I cannot thank you guys enough. Thank you guys so
much for being supporters. That goes for everybody who is
down in the description, as well as assid System, Ball
(17:56):
Arms of the Rat, Blake Rattler, Random, Mendoza, Grinna, crowl Brimstone, Pannemonia, Caltuna,
Shain Smoke a Dealer, Chicago hit Man, Corey Kensh crown Up,
five Away, Crusader, joke about curse, Pock's Primark to go
to best than of Poulson, Don't take Hi, Kaid Dinah Krauss,
Ellie Hopmeyer and Chanted Buns, Esteban Jellahalsey Hay, his Nephew, Jimbo,
Jerry Hour, a Minute Seconds Time, Jay Keems, Jettis, pat Jordan, Humble,
Kink Crab, Mister Marcus Splitz, Old Penguin, Peaceful Buddha, Cycle,
molt Red, Shadow Cat, Remember the Sun, Rinku Star, Salty Surprise,
(18:17):
Samara Line Seclude, Simba's Buddy, Mojo Sky, Harper Smiley, a
Psychotic Sulli Man, Tolly Sue, the Shabaz Brothers. Thank you
so much, and honestly, thank you to everybody, even those
guys that are in there for just one dollar.
Speaker 1 (18:26):
It really helps me out.
Speaker 3 (18:28):
Once again, that's patreon dot com slash mister creep Pasta
or if you guys like to just listen, honestly, that
helps me out a lot too. Thank you guys so
much for being here. Thank you for listening, Thank you
for watching, and sweet your hands
When my daughter Emma died in two thousand and nine,
I thought the worst pain was over. I was wrong.
She was only ten, hit by a drunk driver while
riding her bike in front of our house. I don't
(00:24):
need to describe the hell that followed. I mean, if
if you lost a child, you already know it. If
you haven't, then thank whatever God you believe in. The
first voicemail came on what would have been her twenty
fourth birthday. It was three sixteen a m. And my
(00:49):
phone buzzed. I was already awake. Insomnia has been on
my shadows since we buried her eye, and I recognized
the number instantly. It was hers. We kept her phone
plan going for a while after her death, just to
hear her voice on the voicemail. Eventually we canceled it.
(01:09):
I thought we did. The message was only a few
seconds long that and then static. I sat up in
my bed. Not a glitchy AI sound, not some kind
of kid playing a prankt That was Emma, soft and confused,
(01:32):
just like she used to sound when she woke up
from a nightmare. I didn't sleep the rest of that night.
I didn't tell anyone. The next night, it happened again,
that are you still mad at me? Static? Then silence.
(02:00):
I stopped checking the messages for a few days, thinking
if I didn't listen, it would stop. But it didn't.
They came every night at three sixteen am, exactly, always
from her old number, always her voice. I finally gave
in and listened to all of them. Some of them
were whispers that I couldn't make out, some were just
some were just sobbing. One night, she said, I'm cold,
(02:29):
it's so dark here. I took the phone to the police.
The officer was sympathetic but firm, probably the scam, maybe
some kind of sick hacking, said that they'd look into it.
They never called me back. I contacted the phone company.
(02:53):
Her number had been reassigned to a teenager in Wisconsin.
I spoke to his mother. She said he hadn't used
the phone in months. He lost it and at the
same time the voicemail started. My therapist told me it
was grief, unresolved trauma, that my brain was just playing
(03:15):
tricks on me. But here's the thing. Emma said something
in her last voicemail that shattered any doubt. It was
June third, the anniversary of her death, and the message
(03:38):
was longer this time that I saw you by the bike,
I tried to yell. I waved, you looked right through me,
and then pausing. Did you pretend you couldn't see me?
(04:09):
I hadn't told anyone I visited the exact spot that day,
not my sister, not my ex wife, no one. And
I did think I saw something, a flicker in the
corner of my eye, a small figure in a blue jacket,
the same one that she was wearing that day. But
when I turned nothing was there. I told myself it
(04:32):
was my imagination that came the final message two nights ago.
It was different. It was louder and more alive. Daddy,
I'm not supposed to talk to you anymore. He's getting mad.
(04:56):
Static static called like fire. And then I heard a
new voice, not Emma's. It was deep and slow and wrong,
and it said stop looking, you'll see us soon enough,
(05:19):
and the line went dead. I smashed the phone. Yesterday,
I got a new number, new provider, burned the old
sim brand new phone, and still tonight, at exactly three
sixteen am, the phone buzzed one new voicemail.
Speaker 2 (05:48):
From Emma.
Speaker 1 (05:54):
Spent four nights, I thought, sharing this might help. I
don't know. Maybe if I released it somehow, maybe I
give its shape it, maybe that would make it stop.
(06:16):
It didn't. The voicemails still come every single night, three
sixteen am, not a minute before, not a minute after.
I used to bolt upright when it happened, heart in
my throat, breath caught. And now I just lie there
and I wait for the buzz like a ritual. I
don't listen anymore, not all the way through. I just
(06:36):
let them pile up in my inbox, collecting like dust
in a forgotten room. But last night I couldn't ignore it.
It started with Emma's voice again, soft, wavering, the way
that she used to sound when she was trying to
be brave but needed me. I'm scared, daddy, she said,
(07:01):
She's getting closer. I can't hide here much longer. And
then static, sharp and sudden. It hurt my ears to
a speaker. And then something I couldn't quite catch, a whisper,
slurred or maybe layered over itself, like multiple voices saying
the same thing out of sync. Then then I heard it,
(07:25):
a clicking, like fingernails tapping glass, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
One two, pause, one, two three. I didn't recognize the pattern,
but it felt intentional, like something trying to signal or
get my attention. And then I it just stopped dead silence.
(07:57):
I didn't sleep, I couldn't. I waited for dawn, like
it was a promise. This morning I checked the house.
Every window had scratched his thin fine marks like something
sharp had traced lines across the glass. Some of them
were so high up I needed a step ladder just
to get a closer look. I mean, I live alone,
I have no pets, no trees brushing the house, no explanation.
(08:18):
And then out front, in the grass near the road,
that road, I saw something caught on a low branch
by the ditch where the accident happened. It was a
piece of fabric, blue faded denon, torn in a pattern
(08:43):
I knew too well. I ran inside. I climbed into
the attic, yanked the old sealed storage box down with
shaking hands. Her jacket, the one she wore the day
she died. It was still inside. I kept it for
the smell of the memory, zipped in a vacuum bag,
untouched since the funeral. I opened it just to be
(09:04):
sure the tear in the shoulder matched exactly with the
one outside. It looked It looked new, like it had
just been ripped. No dirt, no weathering, no fading from sunlight,
not even not even dew fresh. It was fresh, clean fabric.
(09:26):
This was the moment I stopped pretending I could log
it my way through this tonight. Actually, just an hour ago,
something changed. It wasn't a voicemail. It was a text
from her number, just two words, come outside, no punctuation,
(09:57):
no context, just that and I won't lie. I stood
there with my phone in my hand, who had felt
like forever, my thumb hovering over the screen like I
was going to reply. My heart wasn't racing, I wasn't panicking.
There was something worse. That warmth, that aching familiarity. It
(10:27):
felt like her. It felt like those nights she used
to crawl into bed after a nightmare of curl against
my chest, her breath slow, and even as she drifted
back to sleep, I could almost feel her weight again,
like her little hand tangled in my shirt. I almost
(10:53):
opened the door, my hand it was on the knob
when a phrase someone had commented came back to me
like a jolt of old water. If she ever asked
you to go somewhere, don't. I stopped. I turned off
the porch light. I waited, and then and then I looked,
(11:23):
just a quick glance through the curtain, but I saw
something at the edge of my driveway. Small, still dressed
in a blue jacket, her size, her shape, but too still,
like like a photo, standing upright in the dark. I blinked.
(11:53):
It was gone. No sound, no movement, just the soft
hum of the street light overhead, and the sudden certainty
that something out there knew I was watching. I don't
know what this is anymore. I don't know if it's
my daughter or something that remembers her better than I do.
(12:14):
But I do know this. It wants to be let in,
and it doesn't want to be ignored. I'll update again
if I'm still here. I didn't sleep last night. I
(12:42):
don't really know why. There was no buzzing at three
sixteen am. No voicemail, no message, nothing at all. You
think I'd feel relief, but instead I felt hollow. Something
was missing, worse waiting. I sat in bed, phone in
(13:06):
my hand, screen lit. Nothing, nothing came, no notification, no
block number, no whisper of her voice, just the glow
of the lock screen and the steady tick of the
clock beside my.
Speaker 2 (13:16):
Bed, And yet the dread didn't go away.
Speaker 1 (13:27):
This morning, when I stepped out onto the porch, I
found something on the doormat us A single polaroid photo.
No envelope, no note, no sign that anyone had been
near the house, just just the photo. I stared at
(13:51):
it for a long time before I picked it up.
Something about it made my stomach twist, like like I
already knew what would be on it, like I'd already
seen it before, maybe in a dream that I'd forgotten,
or a memory I never wanted to have. There was
(14:11):
a picture of Emma's bike, the one she was riding
when she died. Except the photo wasn't old. It wasn't
from that day. I know because the grass in the
background still had the bare patches. I'd receved it just
(14:31):
a few weeks ago. My neighbor's cars in the driveway
the garbage bins tipped the same way it was yesterday
morning when the wind knocked it over. It it was recent.
The bike was propped on its kickstand at the edge
of the road, right where the accident happened. The back
we always bent. The seat was torn exactly as I
(14:52):
remember it after the crash. But we don't. We don't
have that bike anymore. We buried it along with her.
I checked the spot. There's nothing there, no tire tracks,
no bike, no photo prints anywhere else. There's grass and
(15:16):
silence and the faint smell of rain that never came inside.
I set the photo on the table and stared at
it for hours. I couldn't couldn't touch it again. My
fingers itched to flip it, but I was scared of
what might be there, And finally, finally I did. The
(15:42):
back was blank except for two words, written faintly in pencil,
not printed. They were written, and they were written in
her handwriting. I remember that broke something in me. I
(16:04):
don't know if I'm supposed to remember something, or if
she does something I bury deeper than her jacket or
the sealed boxes in the attic, something I don't. I
don't want pulled into the light. I want to believe
it's her so badly it hurts. But a memory doesn't
doesn't knock on your door, It doesn't whisper through phone lines,
(16:26):
it doesn't dig up a rusted bike and pose it
like an offering. At tonight, at exactly three sixteen am,
my phone buzzed again, not a voice, smail, FaceTime from
(16:48):
her number, and for one second, just before I declined it,
the thumbnail preview showed something something from behind me, something.
Speaker 3 (17:08):
Smiling either kids, It's me, mister creep Pasta, And I
just wanted to tell you thank you so much for
watching tonight's video or for listening to tonight's episode of
the podcast wherever you happen to do that. So if
it's like on YouTube, then you're probably, you know, watching
(17:30):
the video.
Speaker 1 (17:30):
But if it's on.
Speaker 3 (17:33):
Not then you're probably listening to the podcast like with
Spotify or Apple or something like that. But yeah, thank
you so much for listening. And as always, I want
to give a very big thank you to everybody who
supports me over at patreons patreon dot com slash mister Creepypasta.
I cannot thank you guys enough. Thank you guys so
much for being supporters. That goes for everybody who is
down in the description, as well as assid System, Ball
(17:56):
Arms of the Rat, Blake Rattler, Random, Mendoza, Grinna, crowl Brimstone, Pannemonia, Caltuna,
Shain Smoke a Dealer, Chicago hit Man, Corey Kensh crown Up,
five Away, Crusader, joke about curse, Pock's Primark to go
to best than of Poulson, Don't take Hi, Kaid Dinah Krauss,
Ellie Hopmeyer and Chanted Buns, Esteban Jellahalsey Hay, his Nephew, Jimbo,
Jerry Hour, a Minute Seconds Time, Jay Keems, Jettis, pat Jordan, Humble,
Kink Crab, Mister Marcus Splitz, Old Penguin, Peaceful Buddha, Cycle,
molt Red, Shadow Cat, Remember the Sun, Rinku Star, Salty Surprise,
(18:17):
Samara Line Seclude, Simba's Buddy, Mojo Sky, Harper Smiley, a
Psychotic Sulli Man, Tolly Sue, the Shabaz Brothers. Thank you
so much, and honestly, thank you to everybody, even those
guys that are in there for just one dollar.
Speaker 1 (18:26):
It really helps me out.
Speaker 3 (18:28):
Once again, that's patreon dot com slash mister creep Pasta
or if you guys like to just listen, honestly, that
helps me out a lot too. Thank you guys so
much for being here. Thank you for listening, Thank you
for watching, and sweet your hands
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On Purpose with Jay Shetty
I’m Jay Shetty host of On Purpose the worlds #1 Mental Health podcast and I’m so grateful you found us. I started this podcast 5 years ago to invite you into conversations and workshops that are designed to help make you happier, healthier and more healed. I believe that when you (yes you) feel seen, heard and understood you’re able to deal with relationship struggles, work challenges and life’s ups and downs with more ease and grace. I interview experts, celebrities, thought leaders and athletes so that we can grow our mindset, build better habits and uncover a side of them we’ve never seen before. New episodes every Monday and Friday. Your support means the world to me and I don’t take it for granted — click the follow button and leave a review to help us spread the love with On Purpose. I can’t wait for you to listen to your first or 500th episode!