The last Message

Rain tapped against Daniel Carter's bedroom window as he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was 11:46 p.m. Outside, the city was slowly disappearing beneath the darkness. Cars passed along the wet road, their headlights cutting through the rain, while distant voices drifted up from the street below. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barked twice before falling silent. Daniel barely noticed any of it. His attention was fixed on the phone resting beside him. For seventeen days, he had checked that phone more times than he could count, hoping for a message that never came. Every notification made his heart jump. Every unfamiliar number gave him a little hope. And every time, he was disappointed. His best friend, Michael Hayes, had been missing for seventeen days. No phone calls. No explanations. No goodbye. Nothing. The police had questioned Michael's family and friends, searched the places he usually visited, and followed every lead they could find. Daniel had answered their questions repeatedly, explaining the same things until the words began to feel meaningless. He knew Michael better than almost anyone. At least, he had believed he did. Michael was the kind of person who always replied to messages, even if it was just a stupid joke or a picture of something he thought Daniel would find funny. If he was going to be late, he said so. If he needed space, he explained why. He never disappeared without a word. That was what frightened Daniel most. He reached for his phone and opened their conversation. The last message Daniel had sent Michael was still there. Bro, where are you? Call me when you see this. It had been sent seventeen days ago. There was no reply. Daniel sighed and locked his phone. He was tired of thinking about it. Tired of the questions. Tired of people telling him to be patient when nobody could explain what had happened. He turned onto his side and closed his eyes. Then his phone vibrated. Daniel opened his eyes. A notification lit up the screen. For a moment, he didn't move. He was used to disappointment. He had trained himself not to expect anything whenever his phone buzzed. But something about the timing made him reach for it immediately. The notification was from an unknown number. He unlocked the phone. One message. No profile picture. No name. Just a string of unfamiliar digits. Daniel opened it. Daniel, whatever happens, don't trust them. He read it once. Then again. His stomach tightened. The message had arrived at exactly 11:47 p.m. He checked the number and tried calling it. The call didn't connect. He tried again. Nothing. "Who the hell is this?" he muttered. He took a screenshot and opened Michael's conversation, comparing the message with the way his friend usually wrote. Michael often used full stops when he was serious. He rarely used abbreviations when something mattered. Daniel looked back at the message. It sounded like Michael. But anyone could imitate the way someone texted. He typed a reply. Who is this? He waited. Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. No response. Daniel sat up and switched on his bedside lamp. His room suddenly felt too quiet. The rain continued against the window, but he could hear his own breathing. He opened the number's details and searched through the message information, looking for anything that might identify the sender. There was nothing useful. He returned to the conversation and typed another message. If this is some kind of joke, it's not funny. Tell me who you are. He sent it. Still nothing. Daniel rubbed the faint scar above his left eyebrow, a habit he had developed as a child whenever he was nervous. Then he noticed something. The message had been delivered. That didn't mean the sender was Michael. It didn't even mean the sender was still holding the phone. But it meant the number was active. And someone had deliberately chosen to contact him. Daniel stood up and walked to his window. The street below was almost empty. A streetlight flickered across the road, illuminating the rainwater gathered along the pavement. He searched the darkness without knowing what he expected to find. A person watching his house, perhaps. A car parked outside. Anything that might explain why a stranger had sent him a message that sounded like a warning. There was nothing. His phone vibrated again. Daniel nearly dropped it. Another message. His eyes moved quickly across the screen. Don't go to the police. He stared at the words. The first message had frightened him. The second made him angry. "Who are you?" he whispered. He called the number a third time. This time, the call rang once before disconnecting. Daniel's fingers tightened around the phone. Someone was there. Someone was reading his messages. Someone knew he might contact the police. He opened his contacts and scrolled until he found Michael's name. Their old profile picture appeared on the screen: the two of them standing outside a small restaurant, laughing at something Daniel could no longer remember. Michael had one arm around his shoulder. He was wearing the silver ring he had owned since childhood. Daniel remembered that day clearly now. Michael had insisted on taking the picture because he said they would laugh about it when they were older. Daniel had laughed at him. He wished he hadn't. He returned to the unknown number and typed slowly. Michael? He stared at the name before pressing send. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then the typing indicator appeared. Daniel stopped breathing for a moment. Someone was composing a reply. Three dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again. Finally, a message arrived. You need to stop looking for me. Daniel felt the room tilt around him. He read the sentence repeatedly, trying to convince himself he had misunderstood it. Looking for me. Not looking for Michael. Not asking about Michael. Looking for me. His hands began to tremble. He typed a reply. Where are you? Are you safe? The message was delivered. He waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Then another message appeared. I'm sorry, Daniel. Daniel stared at the screen. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask. He wanted to demand an explanation, ask why Michael had disappeared, and find out what had happened during those seventeen days. But before he could type anything, another message arrived. Whatever you hear tomorrow, don't believe it. Daniel's heart began pounding. "What does that mean?" he said aloud. He called the number again. This time, the call failed immediately. He tried sending another message, but it remained unanswered. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the conversation changed. The sender's profile picture disappeared completely, and the number became unavailable. Daniel sat motionless on the edge of his bed. He had spent seventeen days wondering whether Michael was alive. Now, for the first time, he had a reason to believe he might be. But the messages had raised a question more frightening than the one he had been asking himself. If Michael was alive, why was he hiding? And who were the people Daniel had been warned not to trust? His phone vibrated one final time. Daniel looked down. It was a notification from an unknown number. This time, there was no message. Only a photograph. He opened it. The image showed a narrow corridor with peeling walls and a broken ceiling light. At the far end stood a rusty metal door. Daniel recognized the place immediately. His mouth went dry. It was an abandoned building on the outskirts of the city, a place he and Michael had visited years earlier when they were younger. They had discovered it by accident while exploring an overgrown path behind an old warehouse. They had promised never to tell anyone about it. Daniel had not thought about that building in years. Yet someone had just sent him a photograph of it. He zoomed in. There was something written on the metal door. Six characters. A number followed by five letters. R-1407 Daniel didn't understand what it meant. But beneath the photograph was a final line. Come alone. He looked at the time. 11:59 p.m. The rain had begun to ease outside, leaving the city wrapped in a strange, heavy silence. Daniel stared at the photograph until the screen dimmed. Then he stood, walked to his wardrobe, and pulled out a dark hoodie. He didn't know who had sent the messages. He didn't know whether Michael was truly alive. And he certainly didn't know whether going to that building was the right decision. But after seventeen days of unanswered questions, he finally had something he hadn't had before. A lead. Daniel grabbed his keys and slipped his phone into his pocket. At the door, he paused and looked back at his bedroom. Something about the messages bothered him more than the threats, the photograph, or the mysterious code. It was the way the sender had known exactly what to say to make him listen. Whoever was behind the messages understood Daniel. They knew how much Michael meant to him. And they knew he would never ignore a chance to find his friend. Daniel switched off the light and stepped into the hallway. He had no idea that by morning, he would discover that Michael wasn't the only person who had been keeping secrets. And he had no idea that someone had already begun watching him. END OF CHAPTER ONE