“The Call from Nowhere”

Sergeant Daniel Crowe was on night duty at the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department. Rain was pouring down, droplets hitting the windows with a steady patter. The only light in the office was the dim light from a computer screen and the hum of a radio in his ears.

When the clock read 2:17 a.m., the red light on the dispatch desk flashed—a 911 call had just been received.

“911, hello, how can I help you?” the operator asked.
The girl’s voice trembled, muffled between sobs.

“Mom… Mom’s not waking up.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lily…”
“Okay, Lily, I need you to tell me the address.”

“214… Pinewood Road…”
“Is anyone with you, Lily?”

“No. Just me and Mom… Mom on the floor, there was blood…”

Then the line went dead. Heavy breathing, then the sound of small, faltering footsteps running — then crackle, the signal cut off.

Crowe and his partner Carter raced to the address. The house was isolated in the damp, moss-covered suburbs, dark. No lights, no sounds.

When they got out of the car, Carter frowned:

“Are you sure this is the right address?”
“The operator just got the GPS. That’s it — 214 Pinewood.”

They knocked. No answer. The front door was ajar, the hinges creaking when Crowe pushed it in.

Inside — dust covered, cobwebs hanging in the corners. The house looked abandoned for years. The smell of mold and decay filled the air.

Carter turned on the flashlight. Light streamed across the stained wall, the tattered sofa, and an old landline phone lying in the middle of the floor. The red light on the phone was still blinking.

Crowe moved closer. The small screen read:

“Active line – 911 Call Recording”

He pressed the answer button. From the speaker came the same little girl’s voice they’d heard a few minutes ago.

“My mom isn’t waking up anymore…”

Carter swallowed.

“What the hell is going on? This call is still recording?”
Crowe said in a low voice:

“Yeah… but look around. No one lives here.”

They walked deeper into the room. The living room was dusty, the dining table was broken, and on the wall hung a family photo: a young woman with brown hair holding a girl about 6 years old. Under the photo was a faded line:

“Lily and Mom – 2009.”

Carter pointed to the corner of the floor: a dried red stain, like blood, was spreading from the wood. But when he touched it, it turned to black mold.

“Mr. Crowe,” Carter said softly. “If this photo was taken in 2009… the child who called 911 couldn’t be six years old now.”

“Yes. If he called tonight, he would have been at least… eighteen.”

Crowe looked around—the house was cold as a museum, everything frozen in time over a decade ago.

The tech center called over the radio:

“Sergeant Crowe, confirming address 214 Pinewood—that house has been abandoned since 2011. No power, no water, no one has lived there since a murder twelve years ago.”

Crowe gripped the radio:

“What case?”
“The mother—Sarah Collins—was murdered in the home. The girl, Lily Collins, was missing, never to be found.”

The air suddenly froze. Carter took a step back, whispering:

“We just got a call… from the child who disappeared 12 years ago?”

As soon as he finished speaking, the old phone rang.

The sound from the speaker rang again, clear, heavy with emotion:

“Uncle… I’m so scared… my mother won’t open her eyes anymore…”

Carter yanked the phone cord from the wall — but the sound continued.

They turned on the special recorder to locate the source of the sound. The device displayed the sound waves coming from the basement.

Crowe took the gun, opened the hatch. A cold breath came up as if from underground. It smelled damp, rusty iron, and something… like rotting flesh.

The two of them stepped down.

The flashlight beam swept over the old toys, the headless doll, the rusty children’s bicycle. In the middle of the floor was a small tin box.

Crowe opened the lid. Inside was a cassette tape with the words written in childish handwriting:

“Last call.”

He inserted the tape into the recorder. It played with a crackle, then Lily’s voice:

“If anyone hears this… please tell Mom I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave. I just heard someone calling my name… down here in the basement…”

After that, the tape stopped with a small scream and the sound of a door slamming.

Crowe turned to go up when bang! — the door slammed shut. Carter rushed forward, banging, but there was silence above. The radio was staticky, all static.

From the darkness, a child’s voice rang out — right behind them:

“Uncle… where’s my mom?”

Carter spun around. There was no one. Just the cold concrete wall.

Crowe raised his flashlight, the light catching a small handprint on the wall — wet, as if it had just been left.

Carter backed away, trembling:

“Crowe, I can’t take this anymore.”

Crowe replied, his voice hoarse:

“Calm down. We need to get out of here.”

But then Crowe’s walkie-talkie rang—it was his own voice from the tape recorder:

“214 Pinewood, situation is fine. We’re going down to the basement to check.”

“Crowe?” Carter whispered. “That’s what you said…”
Crowe looked at his watch—it read 2:30 AM.

“That was… thirteen minutes ago.”

7. The Buried Truth

In the corner of the basement, they discovered a cracked wall. Crowe removed each brick. Inside was a small, mangled corpse—clutching a doll