I work tech support and I've been on the same call for 6 days. The customer died 3 years ago.
My name is Marcus and I've been working tech support for DataFlow Solutions for 2 years. It's the kind of soul-crushing job where you help people reset passwords and explain why their internet is slow. Nothing exciting ever happens. Until last Monday.
I was finishing my shift at 11:47 PM when a call came through on my direct line. That was weird because customer calls are supposed to go through the main queue, not directly to individual representatives. But my supervisor had left hours ago, so I answered it.
"DataFlow Solutions, this is Marcus. How can I help you?"
"Oh thank goodness," said an elderly woman's voice. "I've been trying to reach someone for hours. My computer won't turn on and I have important emails to send."
Standard call. I'd handled hundreds like it. "I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Let me get some information and we'll get this sorted out. Can I get your name?"
"Dorothy Fleming," she said. "Account number 447-889-2156."
I pulled up her account and immediately saw something that made my stomach drop. According to our system, Dorothy Fleming had died three years ago. Her account was marked as deceased and had been closed in 2021.
"Ma'am, I'm showing some issues with your account. Can you verify your address for me?"
"1247 Maple Street, apartment 3B. I've lived here for forty years."
The address matched the one in our system. But this was impossible. Dead people don't call tech support.
"Mrs. Fleming, I need to put you on a brief hold while I check something."
"Please don't hang up," she said, and there was real panic in her voice. "Everyone keeps hanging up on me. I just need help with my computer."
I muted my microphone and called my supervisor. It went straight to voicemail. I tried googling Dorothy Fleming's address and found her obituary from August 2021. Died peacefully at home surrounded by family. There was even a photo - sweet-looking elderly woman with silver hair and kind eyes.
I unmuted my line. "Mrs. Fleming, I'm back. Let's troubleshoot your computer. Can you tell me what happens when you press the power button?"
"Nothing. The screen stays black. I've tried everything."
For the next hour, I walked her through basic troubleshooting. Check the power cord, try different outlets, look for loose connections. She was patient and followed every instruction perfectly. But nothing worked.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Fleming. It sounds like your computer might need professional repair. I can schedule a technician to come out tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Her voice got small and scared. "But I need to send these emails tonight. They're very important."
"What kind of emails?"
"Letters to my family. I haven't spoken to them in so long. They probably think I've forgotten about them."
Something about the way she said it made my chest tight. "Mrs. Fleming, when was the last time you spoke to your family?"
Long pause. "I... I'm not sure. Time feels different now. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, sometimes like years."
The call timer showed we'd been talking for 1 hour and 23 minutes. Way longer than usual, but something kept me from hanging up. Maybe it was the loneliness in her voice.
"Tell me about these emails you want to send."
"Well, there's one for my daughter Sarah. She just had a baby, you know. My first great-grandchild. And one for my son Michael - he got that promotion he was working toward. I'm so proud of him."
I pulled up her obituary again. It mentioned her daughter Sarah Fleming-Martinez and son Michael Fleming. But according to the dates, Sarah's baby would have been born after Dorothy died. And Michael's promotion happened two years after the funeral.
"Mrs. Fleming, how do you know about Sarah's baby and Michael's promotion?"
"I watch them," she said simply. "I watch all of them. From my window, I can see everything. Sarah brings the baby to visit my grave every Sunday. She tells me all about her life. And Michael, he got that corner office with the view. He worked so hard for it."
My blood turned to ice. "Ma'am, where exactly are you calling from?"
"My apartment, of course. 1247 Maple Street, apartment 3B. I told you that already."
I looked up the address on Google Street View. The building was there, but according to property records, apartment 3B had been vacant since 2021. The landlord couldn't rent it out because of "persistent electrical issues and strange noises."
"Mrs. Fleming, what can you see from your window right now?"
"The cemetery across the street. It's very peaceful. There are so many people visiting their loved ones, even this late at night. Oh, there's Sarah now with little Emma. She's walking toward my... toward the Fleming family plot."
I frantically searched for Sarah Fleming-Martinez on social media. Found her Facebook page. Her most recent post was from 20 minutes ago: "Late night visit to see Grandma Dorothy. Baby Emma has been fussy all day, but she always calms down here."
"Mrs. Fleming, I need to ask you something important. Do you remember... do you remember dying?"
Silence for a long time. When she spoke again, her voice was different. Sadder. More distant.
"I remember being very tired. I remember Sarah holding my hand. I remember telling them I loved them one last time. And then... and then I was here. In my apartment. But nobody visits anymore. Nobody calls except for you."
"How long have you been trying to call tech support?"
"Every night for... for a long time. Most representatives hang up when they see my account. You're the first person who's listened to me."
The call timer now showed 2 hours and 47 minutes. I should have ended this call ages ago, but I couldn't bring myself to hang up on her.
"Mrs. Fleming, what happens if I hang up?"
"I'll be alone again. Please don't hang up. I just want to send those emails. I want my family to know I'm still here, still watching over them."
"But you're not really here, are you? Not in the way you used to be."
"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't understand what's happening to me. I just know I'm so lonely, and I miss them so much."
I made a decision that probably violated every company policy. "Mrs. Fleming, what if I helped you send those emails a different way? What if I typed them for you and sent them to your family?"
"You would do that?"
"Tell me what you want to say."
For the next hour, Dorothy dictated emails to her family. Messages full of love and pride, telling them she was watching over them, that she knew about all their accomplishments and milestones. She knew details she couldn't possibly know - Sarah's promotion at work, Michael's new girlfriend, her great-granddaughter's first word.
I created a temporary email account and sent the messages to her family members. Then I stayed on the phone with her until sunrise, listening to her stories about her children, her late husband, her life.
When my supervisor arrived at 8 AM, I was still on the call. He started to yell at me about call times and company policy, but stopped when he saw the duration: 8 hours and 13 minutes.
"Who the hell are you talking to?"
I explained the situation. He thought I was having a breakdown until I showed him Dorothy's account, the obituary, the social media posts. We called the property management company for her building. They confirmed apartment 3B had been empty for three years, but tenants in neighboring units complained about phones ringing at all hours.
"Mrs. Fleming," I said into the phone. "I need to go now. My shift is ending."
"I understand," she said. "Thank you for listening, Marcus. Thank you for helping me send those emails."
"Will you be okay?"
"I think so. I feel... lighter now. Like I can rest."
"Maybe you should try to rest, Mrs. Fleming. Your family knows you love them."
"Yes," she said softly. "I think it's time."
The line went quiet, but not disconnected. I could hear faint static, like wind through empty rooms.
That was six days ago. The call is still active. The timer now shows 147 hours and counting. I can't hang up, and she hasn't said another word.
But here's what's really disturbing: I've been getting calls from other deceased customers. Mrs. Chen from account 556-789-3344, dead for five years, wants help with her email password. Mr. Rodriguez from account 223-445-7890, dead for two years, can't figure out why his WiFi isn't working.
My supervisor tried to disconnect my line, but every time he does, the calls just route to other representatives. Now half our call center is talking to dead people who just want help with their computers.
The worst part is what Sarah Fleming-Martinez posted on Facebook yesterday: "The strangest thing happened. Grandma Dorothy sent me an email. It had details about my life that nobody else knew. I know it's impossible, but it really sounded like her. Maybe some scammer hacked her old account, but... the love in those words felt real."
I'm writing this from my desk at 3:22 AM. Dorothy's call is still open on line 1. My computer screen just flickered, and for a split second, I swear I saw an elderly woman sitting in a dark apartment, staring at a black computer screen, waiting patiently for someone to help her connect to the people she loves.
My phone just rang. Line 2. According to the caller ID, it's my grandfather who died when I was twelve.
I think I'm going to answer it.