I tripped at work—I’m a waitress—and felt something snap in my knee before I even hit the floor. The doctor said it was a torn ligament, wrapped my leg in a cast, and sent me home with strict instructions to rest. My husband, Collins, drove me back.
He was strangely quiet, gripping the steering wheel a little too hard. I assumed he was just worried. When we got home, my mother-in-law greeted us with uncharacteristic warmth.
She fussed, fluttered, and insisted on helping Collins get me upstairs. They tucked me into bed, pulled the blankets up, and told me to call if I needed anything. I truly felt grateful.
But as they stepped out, I heard it—
Click. The door locking. “Hello?
Collins?” I called out, confused. No reply. A knot formed in my stomach.
I grabbed my crutches, hobbled to the door, and pressed down on the knob. Locked. My breath hitched.
“Hey! Why is the door locked?” I shouted. Silence.
I looked around for my phone—gone. Then I remembered: it was still in my bag downstairs. My heart thudded painfully.
I knocked, then pounded. “Collins! What’s going on?”
Nothing.
Then I heard muffled whispers outside. Collins’ voice: “Just keep her inside. It’s safer.”
His mother hissed back, “It won’t be long.
She’d panic if she saw it now.”
Saw what? Fear crawled up my spine. I backed away from the door and scanned the room for anything useful.
The windows were latched. The bathroom had no other exit. My knee throbbed, but adrenaline kept me upright.
Minutes felt like hours. Every so often, I heard shuffling in the hallway… and once, something heavy being dragged across the floor. My imagination ran wild.
Finally, footsteps stopped outside my door. A shadow shifted beneath it. Then a piece of paper slid through.
My pulse hammered. With shaking hands, I unfolded it. “I’m sorry.
I didn’t want you to be scared. – C.”
Not helpful. Not comforting.
Not normal. Tears blurred my eyes as I stared at the door, unsure if I was supposed to scream or whisper. Then, suddenly—
A sound I will never forget.
A baby’s cry. Soft at first, then louder. Higher.
Angry. But we had no children. “Collins?” I croaked, but my voice cracked.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs. The doorknob rattled violently. “Open the door!” Collins shouted.
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