A Call from the Future

Shadows from the Past Unravel

The words hung between us, heavy and cold. I thought of the Sophie I knew—the one who’d stayed up all night with me in college when I had food poisoning, wiping my face with a damp cloth, joking to keep my spirits up. I’d sworn then we’d be friends forever. But how much did I really know about her? She’d never breathed a word about the fire, the k********g.

My phone buzzed, snapping me out of my spiral. The screen lit up: Sophie. No—Sophie from a week from now.

I glanced at Ethan. “I need to use the bathroom.”

I slipped into the small ensuite, locking the door behind me, and answered the call.

“Clara?” Sophie’s voice came through, raw and tear-streaked. “Why’d the last call cut off so fast? I had so much more to say. It took forever to get through again.”

“I’m here,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“There’s something you need to know about Ethan,” she said, her words tumbling out. “After you died, I hired someone to dig into him. He’s got a twin brother, Clara. A twin he never told us about.”

My breath hitched.

“His brother was messed up,” she went on. “Violent. Wet the bed until he was twelve, tortured animals, beat up kids at school. Classic red flags. When they were fourteen, he put a classmate in the hospital—broke his jaw, cracked his ribs. The family paid a fortune to settle it, but the night before he was supposed to go to juvie, their house burned down. Ethan’s brother died in the fire.”

I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles white.

“I keep thinking,” Sophie said, her voice trembling, “why would Ethan hide that? What if the one who died in that fire was the real Ethan? What if the twin took his place to dodge juvie?”

The idea clawed at me. Twins could be near-identical. If Ethan’s brother had survived instead, pretending to be him…

“Who do I trust?” I whispered, more to myself than her.

A knock rattled the bathroom door. “Clara? You okay in there? I thought I heard you talking.” Ethan’s voice, calm but edged with something I couldn’t place.

“I’m fine,” I called back, steadying my breath.

Sophie’s voice dropped to a panicked hiss. “Clara, your death—it’s changed! It’s not a fall anymore. It’s a stab wound—straight through your heart!”

My pulse roared in my ears. I crouched down, peering through the c***k under the door. Ethan’s boots were visible, shifting slightly. And in his hand, glinting faintly in the light from the hall, was a knife.

The call cut off. Call duration: 1 minute. Remaining calls: 3.

The doorknob creaked as it began to turn.

I stumbled back, my heart hammering against my ribs. The door swung open, and there stood Ethan, the blade catching the faint glow of the bedroom lamp. He smiled—a slow, shadowed smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

I stumbled back two steps, my spine pressing against the cold edge of the bathroom sink. My eyes stayed locked on Ethan, every nerve in my body taut as I watched him hold the knife. Its blade gleamed faintly in the low light, a silent threat.

“Clara,” he said, his voice steady but urgent, “Sophie could be dangerous. We need something to protect ourselves.” He extended the knife toward me, handle first.

I hesitated, then took it, my fingers wrapping tightly around the grip. The weight of it grounded me, even as my mind churned. “Ethan,” I said, my voice trembling slightly, “did you have a twin brother?”

For a split second, his face changed—his eyes flickered, a shadow passing over them. “Who told you that?” he asked, his tone guarded.

My stomach sank. “Why didn’t you ever mention it?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze held mine, searching, as if weighing how much I knew. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until he let out a soft sigh.

“Clara,” he said, his voice low, “I never wanted to drag that up. It’s a wound I’ve tried to bury. My brother… he was unhinged. A sociopath. He did awful things—hurt people, animals, anything he could get his hands on. But that night, when the fire broke out, he saved me. Pushed me out of the way and took the flames himself. I hated him, feared him, but in the end, he gave his life for mine. That’s why I don’t talk about it.”

His words carried a raw edge, his face etched with something like regret. I studied him, trying to read the truth in his eyes.

“And the insurance?” I pressed, my grip on the knife tightening. “Why didn’t you tell me you took out a policy on me?”

Surprise flashed across his face, quickly replaced by a wry, tired smile. “Sophie told you, didn’t she? Look, I’ve got a buddy from college—Jake, you’ve met him, the goofy one. He just started selling insurance, and I wanted to throw him some business. I got policies for both of us—me and you.”

He pulled out his phone and scrolled to a chat with Jake. There it was: two policies, one in my name, one in his. The dates and details checked out.

Doubt crept in, muddying my thoughts. Ethan had been my anchor for two years, filling the gaps left by my distant family. Sophie had been the same—my loud, loyal shadow. Could either of them really want me dead? What if this was all a misunderstanding? What if I’d just slipped and fallen that night, and they were both too broken to accept it?

Ethan’s hand closed around mine, warm and firm. “Clara, Sophie’s been driving a wedge between us. I’m still woozy—that tea’s got something in it, I’m sure of it. And her past… I asked a cop friend of mine about that k********g she went through. When they found her, the woman who took her was gone. Vanished. Sophie couldn’t answer a single question—not where the woman went, not even her own parents’ names. She acted like her mind was wiped clean.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “But here’s the thing: it’s weird, right? She comes back all bright and loud, but that smile of hers—it’s like the woman from the police sketch. And her height, her build… they match the kidnapper’s description too closely.”

A chill slithered down my back, raising goosebumps. Before I could respond, my phone buzzed again. The screen glowed: Ethan. The future Ethan.

I glanced at him—the Ethan in front of me—and answered, not bothering to hide it. “Hello?”

“Clara, thank God I got through,” came his voice, tight with relief. “It’s 10:30 now. In a few seconds, you’ll hear a crash downstairs. I went to check it out alone to keep you safe, but you can’t let me go. Keep me with you—please!”

The call cut off abruptly, not even a full minute this time—barely thirty seconds. It felt rushed, like something had interrupted him. Remaining calls: 2.

Right on cue, a loud thud echoed from below, like something heavy hitting the floor. Ethan’s brow furrowed. “Clara, I’ll go see what that was.”

“No!” I blurted, lunging to grab his arm. But he was already moving, slipping out of the bathroom and into the hall.

Panic spiked through me. My phone slipped from my hand, clattering to the tile. I bent to pick it up, and the screen flickered to the camera app—must’ve triggered when it fell. A new photo thumbnail caught my eye, timestamped seconds ago.

My hands shook as I tapped it open. The image was blurry, the angle awkward, but there was no mistaking it: someone was under the bed. Sophie. Her face was half-shadowed, but her eyes—wide and unblinking—stared straight at me.

She was here. Right now. Hiding under the bed.

My throat went dry. We’d been in the bathroom this whole time—had she crept in while we were distracted? The pieces clicked into place: that crash downstairs, the cut-off call. Future Ethan had tried to warn me.

I tightened my grip on the knife, my voice rasping out, “I see you, Sophie.”

She crawled out from under the bed, her movements slow and deliberate. Her face was taut, her eyes darting nervously. “Clara, I slipped in here while you were both in the bathroom. That noise downstairs? I did that—dropped an old radio I found in the hall. I needed Ethan out of the way.”

Her voice trembled as she stepped closer. “What he told you about me—it’s true. I was kidn*pped in high school. The woman who took me… she was deranged. Kept me locked in a basement for three days. She’d scream at me, force me to eat garbage—rotten food, things I can’t even say. Then she’d cry, hold me, kiss me with this rancid breath, saying she loved me.”

Sophie’s face crumpled, tears welling up. “It broke me, Clara. When the cops found me, I couldn’t remember anything—not her, not my own life. They kept pushing, asking where she went, if I was lying. I wasn’t—I just couldn’t think. When the memories came back, I tried to bury it all. I forced myself to be loud, happy, anything to drown out that stench, that room. But it never left me.”

She wiped her eyes, her voice cracking. “The fire at my dorm—I wasn’t there because I’d gone to a therapist that night. After that, people pulled away from me. I couldn’t tell you the truth, Clara. I lied about being bullied because I was terrified you’d ditch me if you knew how messed up I really am. That shame—it’s the ugliest part of me.”

Her words hit me hard, stirring a flicker of pity.