Chapter 1The Message at 3:17
3:17 A.M.
At 3:17 in the morning, Alona Walker received a message from herself.
She was sitting alone in the emergency dispatch room, staring at a wall of glowing screens while rain scratched against the windows.
For eleven years, Alona had learned not to be frightened by strange noises at night.
Sirens.
Crying.
People screaming for help.
A husband whispering that his wife wasn't breathing.
A child calling because his mother wouldn't wake up.
Night after night, she had listened to the worst moments of strangers' lives and somehow remained calm.
But the message on her phone made her hands go cold.
She looked at the screen again.
DON'T GO HOME TONIGHT.
No name.
No unknown number.
No strange contact.
The message had come from Alona Walker.
Her own number.
For several seconds, she simply stared.
Then she laughed.
It wasn't because anything was funny.
It was the nervous laugh people make when their minds haven't decided whether something is ridiculous or terrifying.
“Okay,” she whispered.
She turned the phone over on the desk.
The dispatch room was unusually quiet.
Only three operators were working the overnight shift. Two sat at the opposite end of the room, wearing headsets and speaking softly into their microphones. The third had gone to the break room ten minutes earlier.
Alona looked at the clock.
3:17.
She picked up her phone again.
Maybe it was a delayed message.
Maybe her number had been spoofed.
Maybe someone was playing a stupid prank.
She opened the message details.
Received: 3:17 A.M.
There was no attached image.
No link.
No indication of where it came from.
Just six words.
DON'T GO HOME TONIGHT.
Alona typed:
Who is this?
She stared at the screen.
Then deleted it.
She typed again.
Stop messing around.
Deleted.
Finally, she locked the phone.
“Probably nothing.”
She said it aloud because saying things aloud sometimes made them feel more believable.
Then the emergency line rang.
Alona straightened immediately.
She pressed her headset against her ear.
“Emergency services. What's your location?”
For three seconds, there was only breathing.
Fast.
Shallow.
Terrified.
“Hello?” Alona said. “Can you hear me?”
A man's voice finally answered.
“She's here.”
“Who's there?”
“My wife.”
Alona glanced at the screen in front of her.
“Is she injured?”
“I don't know.”
“Sir, I need you to stay calm.”
“She won't wake up.”
Alona's fingers moved quickly across the keyboard.
“What's your address?”
The man gave it.
Alona repeated it back.
“Is she breathing?”
“I think so.”
“Check for me.”
Silence.
“Sir?”
“I can't.”
“You need to check.”
“I can't go near her.”
Alona frowned.
“Why not?”
The man began crying.
And then he whispered:
“Because she's standing behind me.”
Alona froze.
“What?”
A strange sound came through the headset.
A soft scraping noise.
Like fingernails moving slowly across glass.
“Sir, I need you to leave the room.”
“I can't.”
“Go outside if you can.”
“I told you…”
His voice broke.
“She won't let me.”
The line went dead.
Alona immediately alerted the police and sent the location to the nearest patrol unit.
She removed her headset and sat back.
Her heart was beating faster than it should.
She had handled hundreds of calls like this.
People panicked.
People imagined things.
People said things that didn't make sense.
There was always an explanation.
Usually.
She looked down at her phone.
3:21 A.M.
The first message was still there.
DON'T GO HOME TONIGHT.
A second notification appeared.
Alona's breath stopped.
She picked up the phone.
Another message.
From herself.
AT 3:26, SOMEONE WILL KNOCK ON YOUR DOOR.
She read it twice.
Then a third time.
Her fingers trembled.
She checked the sender.
Her number.
Again.
She looked across the room.
Nobody was watching her.
She opened her contacts and called herself.
The call connected.
Her phone began ringing in her hand.
The sound was absurdly loud in the silent room.
She stared at the screen.
Alona Walker — Calling
Her own phone was calling her.
She answered.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Who is this?”
Static.
Then breathing.
Alona stopped breathing herself.
The breathing on the other end sounded exactly like hers.
Slow.
Uneven.
Close to the microphone.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
The voice finally spoke.
It was a woman's voice.
Alona's voice.
“Don't go home.”
The call ended.
Alona stared at the screen.
The room seemed suddenly colder.
She looked toward the clock.
3:23.
Three minutes.
She stood.
“Alona?”
She jumped.
A coworker was standing behind her.
“You okay?”
Alona turned.
“Yeah.”
The woman looked at her suspiciously.
“You look pale.”
“I just got a weird message.”
“What kind?”
Alona hesitated.
Then she held out her phone.
Her coworker read the messages.
She laughed.
“That's creepy.”
“I know.”
“Someone's spoofing your number.”
“That was my first thought.”
“It probably is.”
Alona nodded.
She wanted to believe her.
She really did.
The woman returned to her desk.
Alona sat down again.
3:24.
She watched the clock.
3:25.
Nothing happened.
Maybe the message was a joke.
Maybe someone had hacked her phone.
Maybe—
Knock. Knock.
Alona's blood turned to ice.
The sound had come from the door of the dispatch room.
Everyone looked up.
Nobody spoke.
Knock. Knock.
Two soft knocks.
Her coworker frowned.
“Did someone lock the main door?”
“I don't know.”
Alona couldn't move.
Her phone vibrated.
She looked down.
A new message.
DON'T OPEN IT.
The room went silent.
Her coworker stood.
“Probably security.”
Alona grabbed her wrist.
“Don't.”
The woman looked at her.
“What?”
“Don't open the door.”
“Why?”
Alona couldn't answer.
Because at that exact moment, something slid underneath the door.
A photograph.
It stopped against Alona's shoe.
She stared at it.
Slowly, she bent down and picked it up.
It was old.
The edges were damaged.
The picture showed two little girls standing beside a birthday cake.
Alona's stomach dropped.
She knew those girls.
The smaller one was her.
The older one was her sister.
Nika.
Alona hadn't seen that photograph in years.
She turned it over.
There was writing on the back.
Four words.
YOU LEFT HER THERE.
Alona stopped breathing.
“No.”
Her coworker looked at her.
“What is it?”
Alona couldn't speak.
Because suddenly she remembered something.
Not clearly.
Not completely.
Just a flash.
A dark room.
A locked door.
Nika crying.
And Alona's own voice saying:
“I'll come back.”
The memory vanished.
Alona dropped the photograph.
Her phone vibrated again.
She looked at the screen.
One final message appeared.
3:26 A.M.
Then—
KNOCK AGAIN.
The door shook.
BANG.
Everyone screamed.
Alona stumbled backward.
Someone was pounding on the other side.
“OPEN THE DOOR!”
A man's voice.
Desperate.
“PLEASE!”
Alona knew that voice.
She had heard it before.
Not recently.
Not in a dream.
Years ago.
The man shouted again.
“ALONA!”
Her coworker stared at her.
“How does he know your name?”
Alona couldn't answer.
The pounding stopped.
Silence.
Then a final message appeared on her phone.
YOU HAVE EXACTLY ONE MINUTE TO DECIDE WHO LIVES.
Alona stared at the door.
Then at the photograph of Nika.
And for the first time in fifteen years, she remembered the sound of her sister screaming.
Thirty seconds later, the lights went out.
