I woke up at 2 a.m. to 18 missed calls from my daughter and a single text that made my blood run cold:
“Dad, help! Come fast!!”
My heart pounded as I sat up, blinking in confusion. I called her back — once, twice, three times — but every call went straight to voicemail.
I didn’t think twice. I threw on my jacket, grabbed my keys, and sped out the door. The drive to her house was only fifteen minutes, but that night it felt endless. Every red light was a lifetime. Every thought screamed something’s wrong.
When I finally reached her home, I barely remembered parking. I ran up the driveway and started pounding on the door.
Moments later, the door opened — and there she was, standing in her pajamas beside her fiancé. Her eyes widened in surprise.
“Dad? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
I stared at her, breathless. “You… You texted me! You said you needed help!”
She frowned, confused. “What? No, I didn’t. I’ve been asleep. I didn’t text you.”
My gaze darted between her and her fiancé. “You didn’t call me either?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. What’s going on?”
I pulled out my phone and showed her the message thread — the dozens of missed calls, the desperate text. Her face went pale.
“That’s my number,” she whispered. “But… Dad, I didn’t send that.”
For a few long seconds, we just stared at each other. Then her fiancé said gently, “Maybe it was some kind of glitch? Or spam?”
But it didn’t feel like a glitch. It felt intentional.
After making sure she was truly fine, I left. But as I was getting back into my car, my phone buzzed again.
A new text. Same number.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, Dad.”
My stomach twisted. I froze, reading it again and again. The words looked just like hers — the punctuation, the tone — everything.
I turned back toward her house. The lights were still on in the living room, silhouettes moving behind the curtains. I thought about going back, but something told me to wait. I texted back instead:
“Who is this?”
No reply.
Minutes passed. Then another message appeared.
“I just wanted to see you one last time.”
My breath caught in my throat. My hands went cold.
I called her immediately, but again — straight to voicemail. I looked back toward the house, my pulse hammering. Should I go back? Should I call the police?
Before I could decide, a new message came through.
“You weren’t supposed to find me yet.”
The world seemed to tilt. I couldn’t breathe. “Find you”? What did that mean?
I got out of the car, scanning the street — every shadow, every flicker of light. The neighborhood was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of a streetlamp overhead.
Then I noticed something odd — my daughter’s car parked by the curb, but behind it… another car. Black. Unfamiliar. No plates.
I walked closer. The engine was off, but the driver’s door was slightly ajar.
I hesitated, gripping my phone, my thumb hovering over the “Call 911” button. And then, as if on cue, my phone buzzed again.
“Don’t.”
I stumbled back, heart racing. Whoever — whatever — was sending those messages could see me.
I spun around, scanning the area, but the street was empty. Every porch light glared too bright, every dark corner felt alive.
Another text came.
“Go home, Dad. Please.”
For a moment, I thought I saw movement in the car’s backseat. A shadow shifting. But when I leaned in closer, there was nothing. Just emptiness — and a faint smell of my daughter’s perfume.
That’s when it hit me — the same scent she used to wear as a teenager, one she hadn’t worn in years.
I drove home in silence, my mind spiraling through a thousand explanations — a prank, a hacker, a sick joke. But deep down, something inside me whispered it wasn’t any of those.
When I got home, I plugged my phone into the charger and collapsed onto the couch. My hands were still trembling. I needed proof that I wasn’t losing my mind.
I opened the message thread again. But this time — it was gone. Every message. Every missed call. Deleted.
It was as if nothing had ever happened.
I checked the call logs — nothing. Checked my cloud backup — nothing.
And yet, the time stamp from when I’d left my house was still there. My location history showed I had, in fact, driven to my daughter’s home at 2:16 a.m.
The next morning, I went back to see her. She looked tired, pale.
“Dad,” she said quietly, “I had the weirdest dream last night. I was calling you, but… I couldn’t speak. I just kept typing ‘Help me’ over and over.”
My blood ran cold.
“What time?” I asked.
She looked at her phone. “Around two in the morning.”
We both just sat there in silence. Neither of us could explain it. Neither of us wanted to.
That night, as I tried to sleep, my phone buzzed once more. No ringtone, no notification — just one silent vibration.
When I checked it, the message read:
“Thank you for coming, Dad. I’m safe now.”
And this time, there was no number. Just the word: Unknown.
