Natalie Price, a 34-year-old graphic designer from Portland, Oregon, was having a normal Tuesday night. She’d just left her friend’s house after dinner and was heading home through the backroads—a route she’d driven dozens of times.

It was 9:47 PM when her phone rang.

The number was unknown, with no caller ID. Instinct told her not to answer. But something made her swipe “accept.”

The voice on the other end was male. Calm. Warm.

“Natalie,” he said. “You need to turn around. Right now.”

She paused. “Who is this?”

But the man repeated: “Please. Turn around. Do not go past the next intersection. There’s going to be an accident.”

Something in his voice—steady, urgent, familiar—chilled her. She turned her car around and pulled off onto a small gravel turnout. Less than two minutes later, headlights streaked past. Two cars collided at full speed right where she would’ve been.

Natalie sat in stunned silence.

She tried calling the number back. Disconnected.

Later, she filed a report with the police. They were baffled, especially when traffic camera footage confirmed she had avoided a deadly accident.

Still shaken, Natalie mentioned the call to her dad. His face turned pale.

“That voice,” she said. “It sounded like someone I’ve heard before.”

Her father dug through an old box of cassette tapes—recorded voicemails from years ago. One in particular stood out: a 1992 message from her uncle Tom, a firefighter who had died saving two children from a house fire in 1993.

When Natalie heard the tape, she dropped her phone.

It was him. The exact voice. Same inflection. Same calm tone.

Tom had died over 30 years ago.

But somehow… he’d made a phone call.

To save her life.

There’s no record of the number. No trace of the call in her phone history.

Just a date and time.
And a memory she’ll never forget.