The baby monitor is on the fritz. It’s making this weird static noise, like a bag of chips crinkling. So I went into Esme’s room to check on her.
The crib is one of those old wooden ones. I was feeling around for the wire and my fingers hit something hard and sticky. I peeled it off.
Just a cheap burner phone, the kind you buy at a gas station. My wife, Briana, had been acting weird. She gets these calls and always goes outside to answer.
She says it’s her mom, but I can hear the way she talks. It’s not her mom. The other night she came home with a tiny scratch on her face.
I asked what happened and she said she fell at the gym, but she doesn’t even go to the gym. Then the weird deliveries started. Big boxes with no return address.
She says it’s just stuff for her Etsy store, but she won’t let me open them. I unlocked the phone. The screen lit up.
It was already on the text message app. The last text was from an unknown number. It just said “The crib.” I scrolled up.
And there, from a contact named “Kellan,” I saw a photo. It was a picture of my living room. Of me, asleep on the couch.
The photo was taken from outside, through the window. And the message under it said, “He has no idea. We’re getting closer.” The next message said, “Just get it done before he sees the—”
The message ended mid-sentence.
No follow-up. My stomach dropped. I looked over at Esme sleeping peacefully, her little fists curled by her face.
Someone had been in our house. Or at least close enough to take that photo. I turned the phone off, stuffed it in my hoodie pocket, and quietly backed out of the room.
I couldn’t risk waking her. Briana was in the kitchen, sipping tea like nothing had happened. She looked up at me and smiled like she always did, but something about her eyes felt off.
Maybe it was the way they darted toward my pocket. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. But I couldn’t ask her yet.
Not without a plan. That night, I stayed up. I pretended to fall asleep on the couch again and left the hallway light on.
Around 2 AM, I heard the creak of the back door. Real slow, like someone trying not to wake anyone. I slid off the couch and tiptoed to the kitchen.
There was Briana, wearing a black hoodie, holding one of those returnless boxes. She didn’t see me. She slipped out the door and into the dark.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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