My wife and I stared at the screen as the second message appeared.
“Don’t go home tonight.”
A cold wave rushed through me. I looked at her, expecting some explanation, but she looked just as terrified as I felt.
“Who’s doing this?” she whispered.
I tried calling the unknown number, but it went straight to voicemail. My wife insisted it had to be some sick prank from one of her coworkers. I wanted to believe that too.
But then my phone buzzed again.
“I’m trying to help you.”
My hands shook as I read it aloud. My wife suddenly grabbed my arm. “Drive,” she said quietly. “Just… don’t go home yet.”
We parked near a diner across town and sat there for almost an hour, barely speaking. Every sound made us jump. Finally, unable to take it anymore, I decided to drive home anyway.
As we turned onto our street, we both froze.
Smoke was pouring from our house.
Fire trucks blocked the road while neighbors stood outside watching in shock. A firefighter stopped us before we could run closer.
“The kitchen exploded,” he said. “Looks like a gas leak.”
My wife began crying against my shoulder.
Then my phone vibrated one last time.
“You’re welcome.”
A second later, the number disappeared completely from my messages, as if it had never existed at all.
