I woke up at 2 a.m. to 18 missed calls from my daughter and a text that said:
“Dad, help! Come fast!!”
My heart nearly stopped. I didn’t hesitate—I jumped in the car and drove through the night like a madman, headlights slicing through the darkness, praying I wouldn’t be too late.
When I got to her place, I rang the bell over and over until the door opened. My daughter stood there, blinking, confused. Her fiancé came to the door behind her.
“Dad? What’s wrong?” she asked.
I showed her my phone, still trembling.
“You called me. You texted me. What’s going on?”
She stared at the screen.
“Dad… I never texted you. My phone’s been on silent, charging all night. I haven’t touched it.”
We stood in stunned silence. Nothing made sense. I walked through the house just to be sure. Everything was normal. Too normal.
Trying to calm myself, I apologized, hugged her, and headed out. I’d barely turned the key in the ignition when another message buzzed in.
This time it read:
“I tried. But now it’s your turn. Don’t ignore the signs like I did.”
The sender?
My own number.
And then—just as I glanced in the rearview mirror—I saw it.
A figure. Pale. Sitting silently in my back seat.
I spun around—nothing. The back seat was empty.
My hands were shaking now. I turned the phone over. Another message popped up.
“Check her basement.”
I slammed the car into park and ran back toward the house. My daughter and her fiancé were confused but followed me downstairs.
And that’s when we found it.
Behind an old shelving unit, hidden behind drywall, was a narrow, sealed-off crawl space. Inside were newspapers, clothes, and a woman’s purse—still holding an ID.
The name wasn’t familiar. But the date on the driver’s license was from over 20 years ago.
And then my daughter gasped.
“This… this was the woman who lived here before us. She went missing. The police never found her.”
We stood frozen. The silence in the room was deafening.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat on the couch, holding my phone, waiting for another message that never came.