PHONE CALLS FROM THE DEAD? 😱☎📞

When my grandmother passed away, I was not told about it until the next day; in fact, I was not home that weekend. A childhood friend who I had become acquainted with about a year before her passing invited me to stay at his house with him for the weekend. His mother had made theatrical plans for us. We were going to visit the Pittsburgh Zoo, hangout at Kennywood, and even catch a Pirate ballgame; however, those plans were just thoughts that imploded with the dreadful news she was compelled to reveal to me; thinking back now, it was probably one of the most difficult things she had to handle with a child not of her own.

To the best of my recollection that day, my friend Joe and I were playing a game of tag in his basement when, quite suddenly, it was interrupted by his mother’s heavy and powerful footsteps storming down the basement. The look on her face was as hard as iron; her eyes filled with dark shrouds of uncertainty. I forced myself to stare at her, out of fear, and out of obedience, as I was only ten years old. When her feet had reached the last stair, she stood there like she was instantly frozen, like an expressionless mannequin staring into the abyss. The thick silence, which seemed like an eternity to Joe and me, was broken with some swollen hoarseness that oozed from mouth when she said these words, “Mark, we need to talk. Let’s sit down.”

She took me across the room from where I was having fun with Joe and sat me down on an old musty couch, the kind that smelled like damp basement water. My heart began to swell in my chest, and my throat was expanding like I had swallowed a hot water bottle. As soon as she had finished poking her eyes right into mine, she gave me some dreadful news. “Mark, you haven’t asked me lately how your grandma has been. You know she is quite sick”, she said in a rusty tone of voice. “Yes, I know she is. I have been very worried about her. How is she? Please tell me”, I begged. With a pause that seemed like an eternity, she vomited that phrase that I still remember to this day. “Your grandma is gone!” My eyes welled with tears and my cheeks turned red like a bowl of cherries. After some arduous moments of grief had passed, I remember her giving me a sort of inaudible lecture about the process of death and how I should think of my grandma’s passing. I still cannot recollect what she said to me in those moments, nor can I recall what my thoughts were about death; it was a brand-new process to download. I had never met anyone that died. I just remember sitting there and sobbing terribly. Thinking of nothing, thinking of everything.

Later that evening, she brought me home. The first person I ran to was my mom. I started crying again! I kept telling her how I loved Grandma and I wanted to see her. My mother took me to her bedroom and told me that grandma would always be in your heart and that her memory will always be alive. I can tell you that even as a ten-year-old boy, this was unacceptable! Grandma left me without saying goodbye. This was not like her. I felt cheated; it was my first lesson in life about death and I hated it! I also got a subtle and brief lecture by my father; it was his mother that he had lost and that, as a child, never even occurred to me until years after death. From my point of view, he handled all of this like an expert. My father was remarkable at hiding his emotions, except when something or someone could make him laugh. Laughter was a special quality of my father; he never, no matter how bad things got for him, lost sight of the importance of laughter. (Strange, really.)

As I began to further grieve and attempt to process these episodes, the rest of the family gathered their own methods for dealing with her passing. This went on for the next couple of days; our house was a haven for family visits and reminiscent gathering of days gone long ago. Many conversations took place at our kitchen table about what Grandma Grago was like, what kind of person she was, how good her cooking was, and all the other qualities that made her so unique to our family. Then, during the process of her funeral, the scary phone calls began.

On a cool summer evening, when my relatives had left for their own abodes, we finally had a golden chance to unwind from all of the anxiety and turmoil that a death in the family usually causes, even if it is only brief. As we all sat in the living room watching television, I BEGAN TO HEAR A DISTANT RINGING, MUCH LIKE A PHONE. In those days, for those of you not of age to recall, answering machines were reserved for places of business and wealthy people. Consequently, phone rings could be lengthy; in this case, it was. It was also, to my astonishment, growing louder. I wondered where this was coming from and lazily wondered if anyone else could hear it. My answer came in a flash. My father asked the question I wanted to. “Is that a phone ringing from somewhere. Who the hell’s phone is that?” For a long moment, no one answered him. I think we all knew whose phone it was. We lived in a small apartment building at the beginning of McMinn Street; it was four apartments big, and the walls were a bit thin. We lived on the second floor and my grandmother lived on the first. When my grandfather passed away, she sold her house on 6th Avenue in Aliquippa and moved in right below where my parents and brother were staying. It was an excellent living arrangement for my grandmother as we could all keep an eye on her. Then, my mother, who was always the bravest one in the family, spoke up first. “It sounds like it’s coming from Grandma’s house downstairs! She was right! The phone rang at least a dozen times. My father remained silent, looked at all of us, and continued to watch television. I couldn’t believe it, I couldn’t! Why did he continue to just sit there? Was he going to go downstairs and answer it?

“Dad, aren’t you gonna do something?”, I whimpered to him. “No! No one is going down there to answer her phone! Understand? “He growled back at us.

My mother and I looked at one another then away from each other. I didn’t understand why my father imposed those instructions on us. Did he know something we did not? Did he know who was calling grandma’s phone? Was he scared? Probably not, my father, especially in those formative years, never displayed any fear. Never! That certainly could not be the case. There was something deeper and darker going on here. I was freaked out. Why was someone calling my dead grandmother’s phone. By this mark in the episode, everyone knew she had passed. It was in the newspaper; ALL the phone calls had been made; my father even took the liberty of writing a letter to her remaining family members in the old country. That was an interesting scene in my life. I can still see him at the kitchen table, writing in Serbian, extending long pauses for word choice, and covered in grief. This scene is still replayed in my mind whenever I think of her funeral and my father attempting to come to terms with the passing of his mother. These were experiences of life that were completely alien to a ten-year-old boy.

The next morning, uncomfortable episodes of visits from strange family members, exaggerated performances of grieving, and funeral deportations took its toll on all of us. My father’s eyes looked like they had been wrapped in sheets of lead. My mother was aged by five years, and I was struggling to understand why people must die. The next two days were supervised by a grueling routine of casket viewing, more grieving, fat, swollen faces, and eating wonderful food that you were unable to taste. When the rest of my aunts, cousins, and uncles finally arrived at the decision to leave for the evening, we resumed, as best we could, our normal family schedule.

One more time, evening had set in; we all, this time, halted our actions and listened to the interruption that mercilessly terrified us, except my father. Grandma’s phone began ringing again. They were long, drawn-out rings. This one lasted for 12 rings; I counted them. Then it stopped. For a few moments, it was silent. Then, it resumed. This time, it rang for fourteen rings. Afterwards, the ring stopped; for about fifteen minutes there were no ringing sounds. The tension on my father’s face was coiling on itself like wire, exposing his frail blood vessels that were turning various colors like a merry-go- round of sickness and irritation that he could not get relief from. Vexed by his persistence that this was an issue not to get serious over, I finally vented by insurrection. “Dad, you must do something about this. Who is calling Grandma’s phone! Find out!”, I shouted with a false sense of confidence.

“I said no one is going to answer her phone. Don’t worry about who is calling her. It will stop soon enough. Let me worry about it! That OK with you?”

I lowered my head in disbelief; my mother pretended that this dialogue didn’t take place and that she was the only one in the room. ‘Fine with me!”, I said silently to myself. It ain’t my problem. I just want to get things back to normal. But I can’t seem to get that phone ringing sound out of my head. When will it stop?”, I kept saying to myself.

The last day of Grandma Grago’s viewing, despite all the uninvited stress it put on us, came surprisingly quickly. As the sun was getting ready to close its eyes, I found myself in the same situation as the evening before, only with a twist I could never have anticipated.

Finally, the sun had set, and Grandma’s phone started to ring. My father, as before, from the start of this eerie experience, continued to play it down. Earlier, we had caught it ringing during the day, as we had to temporarily leave the funeral home to bring something there that was of the undertaker’s importance; my father volunteered my services to go home with him. He gave the same response as before, “just ignore it, Mark. We will not answer her phone. It’s nothing!” Back home, once again, I waited inside a wave of thunderous anxiety. ‘When would it start?”, I attempted to belittle myself. 10 minutes passed; nothing. 30 minutes passed; nothing! One hour had passed; that is probably the longest time I ever spent staring at the skinny and creepy hands on our old wall clock we had hung in the living room; nothing! Then, like a lightning bolt through our window, my father’s voice was in stereo when he spoke, probably because it was for me. ‘Mark, get your shoes on, you must come down with me to grandma’s house, we have to get some of her things out of there. OK?”

“Are you serious, Dad! I ain’t going near her house. It’s way too spooky for that, especially with her phone ringing. Get mom to go with you! “ I protested until I almost wet myself. “Your mother isn’t here, she had to go with her sister and do some things, and your brother went with them. Now, let’s go. We won’t be long, just a few minutes.”

No one reading this can imagine my horror. I loved my grandmother immensely; however, death was something new to me; my feelings about it were uncertain and terrifying and difficult to process. My thoughts, for some phantom reason, gave me terrifying visions of her as a pale, mean ghost who intended harm. Throughout her wake, her face in the coffin was cold and white and her hands were as hard as stone. She also had a smell of lavender and roses that were mixed like a spirit potion. It was strange and unnerving. I have never forgotten it. The memories, when I think of them, fall into the same cascade of anxiety and rush. After all these years, I just wish my first encounter with death would have been someone more distant and not as important in my life as she was. It just didn’t happen that way.

When we got downstairs to her back porch, my father turned her rusty key into the tumblers; they screamed for relief; I was waiting to scream. My father had to give a rough push inward to make the door open. It was as dark as a tomb inside her house and the smell was fading. She was gone, and any trace of her remnants there were also absolving.

“Stay right where you’re at. I am gonna go turn the kitchen light on”, he whispered. Like I really wanted to move! My teeth were shaking in my head so bad; I thought they were going to just turn to dust! Finally, after hearing a strange flicker, the light came on in the kitchen; it spilled out a poisonous yellow color, a ‘catch-the-burglar-light if you will. The rest of the house, especially going towards her living room, rejected the light from the kitchen; it remained an ugly shade of dark. No visitation in that room for sure; it was the most unwelcoming place in the house. “Let’s go into her bedroom. What I must get is in there.” As he spoke these words, I grew terrified and my heart in my chest was swollen with blood; it was though all my blood was trying to go to my head all at once. My mouth was dry, and lips were chapped. I was in bad shape for under a few seconds. The anticipation of walking through the darkened living room, past the ‘ghost phone’ that used its ringing talent to terrorize us, was now in full view from the dreamy reflection produced by the cantankerous kitchen light. I held onto the back of my father’s shirt like we were both drowning! I was dancing in a merry-go-round of horror and apparition. There were phantoms and ghosts all over the house, or so I thought. Finally, after what seemed like an irritating eternity, we entered her bedroom; the light switch for that room was on the right side of her wall; my father had no trouble finding it. “I’ll get what we came down here for. Just stay right there”, he again whispered. Like I was going to argue. I couldn’t move, but the heart in my chest was like a piston in a racing car engine about to give out. I could hear my own beats and my breathing! Suddenly, a thunder bolt, in the form of a dreadful ringtone, hit the house. Grandma’s phone started again.

This time, my father’s face turned into a dreadful expression. But he kept his instructions the same. “Don’t answer it! We are leaving in a few moments.” The phone kept ringing during our entire visit. It never disappointed. My father grabbed the few items from her room that he wanted, we walked right past the phone, which was in full ringing like a symphony, and made our way into the lighted kitchen. During all this terror and amazement, he paused for a moment to examine the contents he was taking out of the house. I just stood next to him, like I was a part of him! I refused to move and was compelled, by fear, to listen to the ringing of her phone. Then, I blurted out! “Dad, who is that? Why are they calling grandma! Don’t they know she is dead! Do something! Answer it!” My father did not answer my distress right away; it was as if he knew who it was. The only thing he said to me on the way out of her house was this, “Don’t worry about the phone ringing, Mark. It isn’t anybody we want to talk to; it’s nothing and it will all be over tomorrow, I promise. For the rest of the entire night, grandma’s phone would ring 10 or 20 times then stop, then start all over again. When morning came, the ring stopped.

Grandma Grago’s burial took place in the morning at 11:00 A.M. Sylvania Hills’ chapel was replete with every family member I had ever met, and some I never met; my father’s family was large, and he came from a family of five sisters and an older brother. My mother was the same. After the service was concluded. My father grabbed my shoulder and something wonderful and strange had happened to him. Up to this point, I had never seen him shed a tear; however, one dripped slowly down from the corner of his left eye. It was remarkable as well as sad; I began to cry. He grabbed my shoulder a bit harder and pulled me near him. “It’s going to be alright, Mark. It is going to be alright; it’s over now. We’re going home to eat. OK?”

Later, as I got ready for bed that night, I felt better about myself and grandma. Somehow, I was beginning to understand that she was at peace and that I was just in the process of starting my own life. The phone rings had ceased like my father said it would. It was both disturbing and a relief at the same time. I began to come to terms with what I thought before, while it was all alive and dramatic. I wanted to shout to my father that I knew who was calling! I knew who was on the other side of the phone line. But I never said a word. Many years later, a few months before my father’s own passing, I briefly mentioned grandma’s phone ringing during the episodes of her wake. He just smiled faintly, and said this to me, “Do you remember what I said to you about all that?” I sure do”, I talked back, “No worries!” I paraphrased his exact words. He smiled a strange face at me and said, “Everything is going to be alright, Mark. Soon, I’ll be home.”