As I carried my baby home, an old woman grabbed my arm. “Don’t go inside—call your father,” she whispered. But my father’s been gone for eight years. Still, I called his old number… and when he answered, what he revealed left me frozen…
I was standing at the entrance to my apartment building, holding my newborn son, Mikey, when an old woman materialized from the thick mist like a specter and grabbed my arm.
“Don’t you dare go in there,” she rasped, her breath smelling of some strange herb, her dark eyes burning into mine. “Call your father. Immediately.”
I tried to pull my arm free. “Please, let me go,” I whispered, clutching Mikey tighter. “My father’s been gone for eight years.”
“He’s alive,” she repeated, her conviction so absolute it made my skin crawl. “Dial his old cell number. The one you keep in your contacts. Don’t you dare enter that apartment until you’ve spoken to him. I’m begging you, girl.”
A glacial cold spread through me. How did she know I’d never deleted his number? Sometimes, in my darkest moments, I still called it just to listen to the long, mournful rings.
“There’s danger in your apartment,” she said, her eyes fixed on our fifth-floor windows. “Mortal danger. For you and for your baby boy. Your father is waiting for your call.”
I don’t know what possessed me to obey. With numb, trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone. I scrolled to ‘Dad,’ his old photo still there, and pressed call.
Sheer madness. My father was gone. I had stood by his open casket, kissed his cold forehead goodbye. I pressed the phone to my ear and squeezed my eyes shut. One ring. Two. Three. Of course, no one would answer. I was about to hang up when on the sixth ring, someone picked up.
A click. A rustle of static. And then a voice.
“Natalie? Honey? Is that you?”
The voice was hoarse, strained, but it was unmistakably, impossibly, his.
“Dad?” I breathed, my voice a broken croak. “Is it really you?”
“It’s me, my darling,” his voice was trembling, thick with unshed tears. “Natalie, tell me quickly, where are you? Are you in the apartment?”
“I’m… I’m outside. On a bench,” I stammered. “With… with the baby. Dad, how? How is this possible? You died.”
“I’ll explain later, I promise,” he cut me off, his voice suddenly hard, commanding. “Listen to me, word for word. Do not go into that apartment. Under any circumstances. Go somewhere safe. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes. My father, whom I had mourned for eight years, would be here in twenty minutes.
“But why can’t I go inside?” I pleaded.
He was silent for a moment. “There’s an explosive device,” he finally exhaled. “A homemade one. It’s set to detonate when you open the apartment door. They were going to end you today, Natalie. You and the baby.” Watch: [in comment] – Made with AI