He reached the laundry room—and froze.
His cell phone was upstairs.
Panic surged… until he spotted the old landline mounted on the wall.
He set Camila down on a pile of blankets, touched her burning forehead, and dialed 911.
He didn’t shout.
He didn’t cry.
He just waited.
Then—
Footsteps.
Coming down the hallway.
The air turned heavy.
Part 2
The footsteps weren’t rushed.
They were steady.
Certain.
Like whoever was walking already knew exactly where they were.
Ernest tightened his grip on the phone. Camila curled closer to him, trembling at the sound—the same sound that had taught her to stay silent.
A second passed before the operator answered.
And that second felt endless.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Ernest lowered his voice to a whisper.
“My granddaughter… she’s alive. They were going to… they were going to bury her alive. We’re at 214 Ridgeway Drive. Please—hurry.”
Keys clacked on the other end. Questions followed. He answered what he could—but his eyes never left the door.
The footsteps stopped right outside.
Camila clutched his coat tighter. Her breathing was shallow.
“Grandpa… he said if I talked… you’d get hurt too…”
Ernest didn’t ask who “he” was.
He already knew.
A soft knock.
Not aggressive.
Almost polite.
“Dad?” Jason’s voice came through the door, calm… controlled. “Are you in there? Camila?”
Her name didn’t sound like love.
It sounded like ownership.
Ernest covered the phone’s receiver, holding his breath. Camila squeezed her eyes shut.
“Don’t let him take me back…” she whispered, barely audible.
The operator stayed silent now—listening.
The doorknob moved slightly.
Not opening.
Just enough to remind them…
There was no doubt on the other side.
Only patience.
Ernest scanned the room—no exit. The window was sealed. The hallway behind them led straight back to Jason.
A trap.
Camila opened her eyes again—but she wasn’t looking at him anymore.
She was staring at the door.
Like she was counting down.
The knob turned further.
Jason’s voice dropped lower.
“Dad… don’t make this difficult.”
And then—
The phone line shifted.
A strange click.
Like someone else had picked up from another part of the house.
Ernest froze.
Camila stopped breathing.
The door began to open.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The first thing visible wasn’t a face.
It was a hand.
Holding something metallic.
Small. Shiny. Wrapped in old tape.
Then Jason’s voice—soft, wrong:
“You should’ve let her sleep.”
The hallway light flickered.
The phone went dead.