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THE NUMBER THAT CALLED ME Chapter One: 2:17 A.M. The first time my dead mother called me, I almost didn't answer. It was 2:17 in the morning. I remember the time because I had been staring at my phone for nearly an hour, trying to convince myself that sleep was still possible. Three years had passed since my mother died, but some nights still felt exactly like the night I lost her. The apartment was silent. Too silent. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling while rain tapped against the window. My laptop sat open on the desk, the screen frozen on an unfinished job application. I needed the job. I needed the money. I needed my life to start moving again. My phone suddenly vibrated beside my pillow. I ignored it. It stopped. Then it vibrated again. I reached for it, expecting a spam call. Instead, I saw a name that made every part of my body go cold. MUM I stopped breathing. For several seconds, I simply stared at the screen. It couldn't be real. I had deleted her number after the funeral, but somehow I had never completely forgotten it. Mum. Same name. Same number. Same profile picture. The picture was an old one of her smiling in the kitchen, wearing the blue dress she loved. My hands started shaking. “No,” I whispered. The phone continued ringing. I knew it was impossible. My mother had been dead for three years. I had watched them lower her coffin into the ground. I had stood beside her grave until the rain soaked through my clothes. I had listened to the doctor explain that she had died at 11:43 p.m. There was no way she could be calling me. And yet... My phone was still ringing. I should have let it stop. Instead, I answered. “Hello?” Nothing. I sat up. “Hello?” For several seconds, there was only static. Then I heard breathing. Slow. Uneven. Someone was crying. My heart slammed against my ribs. “Mum?” The breathing stopped. A voice finally came through. Weak. Shaking. But unmistakably hers. “Maya...” I dropped the phone onto the bed. My entire body froze. The voice came again. “Maya, listen to me.” I picked up the phone with trembling fingers. “Mum?” A long silence followed. Then she whispered four words that I would remember for the rest of my life. “Don't trust the police.” The call ended. I stared at the screen. The call duration read: 00:47 Forty-seven seconds. I couldn't move. Then I laughed. Not because anything was funny. Because my mind couldn't find another way to react. “It wasn't her,” I whispered. It couldn't have been her. Someone was playing a sick joke. Someone had somehow gotten her number. Someone had recorded her voice. That had to be it. I immediately checked the call history. Mum — 2:17 A.M. I took a screenshot. Then another. My fingers were still shaking when the phone vibrated again. This time, it was a text message. I opened it. There was no number. No name. Just a message. YOU SHOULD HAVE LET IT RING. My stomach tightened. I looked toward the bedroom door. Nothing. The apartment was locked. I checked the windows. Locked. I returned to the phone. Another message appeared. NOW THEY KNOW YOU HEARD HER. I stopped breathing. “Who are you?” Three dots appeared. Someone was typing. They disappeared. Then appeared again. Finally, another message arrived. ASK YOURSELF WHY YOUR MOTHER WAS REALLY IN THE POLICE STATION THAT NIGHT. My blood ran cold. I knew why my mother had been at the police station. At least, I thought I did. Three years ago, the police had told me she went there voluntarily to report a problem at work. On her way home, she had been involved in a car accident. A tragic accident. That's what they called it. But now, for the first time, I wondered if there had been something they never told me. I opened my browser and searched for my mother's name. Nothing unusual. Then I remembered something. Something I hadn't thought about in years. The night before my mother died, she had called me. I'd been angry with her. We had argued. I never answered. She left a voicemail. I had deleted it after the funeral because I couldn't bear to hear her voice. Or at least... I thought I had deleted it. My hands moved automatically. I opened my old cloud backup. I searched through years of files. Photos. Documents. Voice recordings. Nothing. Then I found a folder I'd forgotten existed. MUM — PRIVATE My heart began pounding. There was only one file inside. VOICE_0217 I stared at the filename. 2:17. The same time she had called me tonight. I pressed play. Static filled the room. Then my mother's voice whispered: “Maya... if you're hearing this, something has happened to me.” I covered my mouth. The recording continued. “And whatever they tell you...” My mother's voice broke. “Don't believe them.” A noise came from somewhere behind her. She stopped speaking. Then, very quietly, she said: “They're here.” The recording ended. I sat completely still. For the first time in three years, I wondered whether my mother's death had ever been an accident at all. Then someone knocked on my apartment door. Three slow knocks. Knock. Knock. Knock. I looked at the clock. 2:31 a.m. Another knock. This time, a man's voice came through the door. “Maya?” I knew that voice. It belonged to Detective Daniel Cole. The police officer who had investigated my mother's death. The same man who had told me three years ago: “Your mother died in an accident. There is nothing more to investigate.” My phone vibrated in my hand. One final message appeared. DON'T OPEN THE DOOR. I stared at the message. Then at the door. Detective Cole knocked again. “Maya, I know you're awake.” My hand slowly moved toward the door handle. And then I heard him whisper something that made my blood turn to ice. Something he couldn't possibly have known. “Your mother should never have called you.” Chapter Two: Don't Open the Door I didn't open the door. I couldn't. My hand hovered over the handle while Detective Cole stood on the other side. “Maya.” His voice was calm. Too calm. “You need to open the door.” I stepped backward. My phone was still in my hand. DON'T OPEN THE DOOR. I stared at those words again. Then another message appeared. HE IS NOT ALONE. My eyes moved toward the bottom of the door. A thin strip of light shone through. Two shadows stood outside. Two pairs of feet. My heart began beating faster. There were two people. I backed away from the door. “Detective Cole,” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Why are you here?” Silence. Then he answered. “I need to talk to you about your mother.” My stomach tightened. “My mother has been dead for three years.” “I know.” “Then what could you possibly want?” Another silence. This one lasted longer. Finally, he said: “She called you tonight.” My blood ran cold. I hadn't told anyone. I hadn't even had time to call anyone. “How do you know that?” No answer. I slowly moved away from the door. The second shadow shifted. I could see the person's shoes beneath the gap. Black boots. They stepped closer. My phone vibrated again. BACK WINDOW. NOW. I looked toward the bedroom. The window. My apartment was on the second floor. There was a narrow balcony outside. I didn't understand what was happening, but I knew one thing. I couldn't stay here. I grabbed my jacket, shoved my phone into my pocket and quietly walked toward the bedroom. Behind me, the knocking stopped. I froze. “Miss Maya?” Detective Cole's voice came through the door. “Please don't make this difficult.” My fingers closed around the window latch. Then I heard something. A metallic click. The sound came from the other side of my front door. Someone was unlocking it. My heart stopped. I pulled the window open. Cold rain hit my face. I climbed onto the balcony. Behind me— CRASH! My bedroom door slammed open. I jumped. A man's footsteps rushed across the apartment. I climbed over the balcony railing and grabbed the metal ladder attached to the side of the building. “Maya!” I looked back. A figure stood in my bedroom doorway. I couldn't see his face. Only his silhouette. He raised something in his hand. A gun. I climbed down. One step. Two. Three. Then— BANG! The window above me shattered. I nearly lost my grip. I didn't wait to find out if the next bullet was coming. I climbed faster. When I reached the ground, I ran. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't know who I could trust. I only knew I had to get away. I ran through the rain until my lungs burned. Finally, I ducked behind a closed shop and pulled out my phone. There were three new messages. The first said: YOU'RE SAFE FOR NOW. The second: DON'T GO HOME. And the third contained a photograph. I opened it. My knees nearly gave out. It was a picture of my mother. Standing outside a police station. Three years ago. The night she died. But there was something strange about the photograph. Someone had circled a man standing behind her. I zoomed in. The man's face became clearer. I knew him. I had seen him before. Not in person. In photographs. In newspapers. On television. He was the police commissioner who had publicly announced my mother's death. My hands began shaking. Then I noticed something else. My mother wasn't looking at the camera. She was looking directly at him. And she looked terrified. A final message appeared. NOW YOU KNOW WHO TO LOOK FOR. I stared at the screen. Then my phone rang. The caller ID showed: MUM I almost dropped it. This time, I answered. A man's voice spoke. “Hello, Maya.” I couldn't breathe. “Who are you?” He laughed softly. Then he said: “Ask your mother.” The call ended. I stared at the phone. My mother's name was still displayed on the screen. And for the first time, I understood something terrifying. Whoever had been calling me... wasn't trying to scare me. They were trying to lead me somewhere. The question was— where?