I stood frozen, staring at my mother as she disappeared into the house. A strange, uneasy silence filled the air. When she finally emerged, she was holding a small, dusty wooden box. Her hands trembled as she handed it to me.
“I never thought this would come back,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
I looked down at the box, feeling a sudden weight in my hands. It was old, with intricate carvings on its surface, and a rusted latch that creaked as I flipped it open. Inside, wrapped in yellowed paper, was an old flip phone.
“This… this belonged to your father,” Mom said, her eyes darting toward the front door, as if expecting someone—or something—to be watching.
“But Dad passed away years ago,” I said, my voice shaky.
She nodded. “Yes. And I haven’t touched that phone since the day he died.”
A chill crawled up my spine. I pulled the phone from the box, my fingers fumbling as I pressed the power button. The screen flickered to life, dim and grainy. My stomach twisted into knots as I saw what was on the screen—an unsent message. It read:
“I got robbed! Come fast!”
The exact words I had received. But this phone had been dead for years.
I looked up at Mom. Her face had gone pale. “This phone has been off since the day your father… disappeared,” she whispered.
“Disappeared?” I repeated, my heart pounding.
Mom swallowed hard. “They said he died in an accident. But I never believed it. He always said if something happened to him, I should never look for him… that he would find a way to reach us.”
I stared at the unsent message again, my hands shaking. Was this him? Was he trying to warn us?
Just then, a loud knock echoed through the house.
Mom and I exchanged terrified glances.
The front door was still ajar.
The knock came again, louder this time.
I stepped forward hesitantly, peering through the peephole. The porch light flickered, casting shadows over the figure standing outside. A tall, hooded man stood motionless, his face obscured.
Then, in the silence, my phone buzzed again.
A new message appeared on the screen.
“Don’t open the door.”
My breath caught in my throat. The sender?
Dad’s old number.
Mom grabbed my wrist, pulling me back. The knocks turned into pounding, shaking the door on its hinges.
Then… silence.
We waited, hearts racing, for what felt like an eternity. When I finally dared to look again, the figure was gone.
I locked the door, my mind racing with questions. Who had sent the message? What really happened to my father?
And most importantly—who was at the door that night?