Black rain on call One secret

chapter 2 the mountain Call

I hadn’t heard from my friend since that day.

At first, the silence felt harmless. Temporary. Something that could be explained away with a simple excuse once she finally called back. But as the days passed, it began to wrap around my thoughts like a tightening shadow—persistent, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

Every morning, I checked my phone before my eyes fully opened. Every night, I stared at the screen long after sleep should have taken me. I waited for a message, a missed call, anything that proved she still existed somewhere beyond my fear.

There was nothing.

None of our mutual friends had heard from her either.

It was as if she had vanished—swallowed by the city, erased without leaving a trace.

Concern turned into fixation.

I went to her workplace because standing still had become unbearable. The office lobby felt colder than I remembered, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like insects trapped in glass. The receptionist scrolled through the system, unimpressed by my urgency.

“She requested a one-month personal leave,” she said.

“Did she say why?” I asked.

“No. Just said she needed time off.”

The explanation felt rehearsed. Empty.

My friend always had a reason. Always a plan. Even her secrets followed a logic I could usually trace.

This didn’t.

At home, my thoughts spiraled into darker places. I reread emails without understanding them. When my manager criticized my International Bank project for lacking clarity, I didn’t argue.

He was right.

My mind was somewhere else—trapped in unanswered calls, fragmented memories, and the growing certainty that time was running out.

Every night, the same dream returned.

A blue Toyota Camry.

It waited just beyond my reach, headlights glowing softly, engine humming like it was alive. No license plate. No driver. Every time I ran toward it, it slipped away—slowly, deliberately—until it vanished into darkness.

And always, the same song played.

“Words.”

The melody clung to my thoughts long after I woke up. It didn’t feel random. It felt intentional. Like a signal I was failing to understand.

At exactly 6:54 PM, I waited for the call that used to arrive with mechanical precision. I sat in silence, counting my breaths, listening for the faintest vibration.

Nothing.

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

The absence unsettled me more than the calls ever had. It felt as though something had changed—as though whoever had been watching me had decided to stop.

Or move closer.

That night, the truth finally settled in.

If I wanted answers, I would have to chase them myself.

The next morning, I requested unpaid leave. My manager studied me for a long moment before approving it.

“I’m trusting you,” he said. “Don’t make me regret it.”

I nodded, though I had no idea what I was walking into.

Back in my apartment, I pulled out my whiteboard and wrote everything I knew:

A blond man with a star tattoo

A blue Toyota Camry

The song “Words”

Phone calls at 6:54 PM

My friend’s disappearance during her leave

I stared at the list until my eyes burned.

No names. No faces. No proof.

Only two things felt real.

The song.

And her.

She used to talk about her family’s mountain house when life became too heavy. A place where no one asked questions. A place where she could disappear for a while.

If she had gone anywhere willingly—

That was it.

I borrowed a car and drove through winding mountain roads as rain battered the windshield and thunder cracked overhead. Fog curled between the trees like something alive, swallowing the road behind me.

After nearly three hours, I reached the house.

It was exactly as I remembered. Silent. Dark. Untouched.

No lights. No footprints. No sign of life.

Inside, the cold air clung to my skin. I lit the fireplace, brewed coffee, and tried to convince myself this was a mistake. Hours passed in uneasy quiet.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Careful.

A young girl stood outside, bundled in winter clothes, smiling too brightly for the darkness around her.

“There’s a celebration at a nearby hotel,” she said. “You should come.”

Something about the way she said should made my stomach tighten.

The hotel felt unreal—warm lights, laughter, music filling every corner.

Then my blood ran cold.

The song was playing.

“Words.”

The room shifted. Conversations softened. Every head turned toward the staircase.

She appeared.

A young woman in a shimmering gown, a delicate silver crown resting on her head. Blue eyes. Calm. Commanding.

She didn’t look surprised to see me.

We danced later beneath golden lights. For a brief moment, she rested her head against my chest.

“The answer is hidden in the words,” she whispered. “And you will soon find what is meant to die.”

She walked away.

My phone vibrated.

The screen lit up.

6:54 PM.

Unknown Caller.

I answered.

A familiar melody filled the line.

Then a voice—low, calm, unmistakably male—spoke for the first time.

“You shouldn’t have come to the mountain.”

The call ended