When The Dead call

3:16 A.M.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

By the third ring, Detective Scarlett Hayes was already awake. Midnight calls only ever meant one thing.

"Detective Hayes."

Breathing answered first. Ragged. Uneven. Someone trying very hard not to panic.

"Please..." A man's voice cracked. "She won't stop smiling."

Silence.

Then a little girl's laughter, soft, close, as if she were standing right behind him.

The line went dead.

Scarlett stared at the screen. A chill crawled across her shoulders. In seven years of hunting the dead, no spirit had ever called her first.

Unknown Number.

Her hand drifted to the silver cross resting against her throat. She stopped.

It was warm.

It was only ever warm when the dead had something to say.

She grabbed her coat, slipped her badge into her pocket, and picked up the worn leather case file marked:

CASE #001- RAVENWOOD

Outside, rain hammered against the pavement.

Most detectives chased killers. Scarlett Hayes hunted the ones who refused to stay dead.

She locked the apartment behind her.

Whatever waited for her tonight, it had never called first before.

Rain lashed against the windshield, blurring the empty streets into streaks of silver and black. Scarlett tightened her grip on the wheel as the city's lights slipped past in silence. The wipers moved back and forth in a steady rhythm, but they couldn't wash away the unease creeping beneath her skin.

The cross was still warm. It hadn't cooled since the call.

That meant the spirit hadn't crossed over. Not yet.

Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat.

Detective Noah Carter

She tapped the speaker button without taking her eyes off the road.

"I'm five minutes away."

"You'd better get here fast." Noah's usually calm voice was edged with tension.

Scarlett frowned. "What happened?"

A brief silence.

Noah rubbed a hand across his tired face. "We've got another body." His voice was steady, but Scarlett caught the slight tremor underneath it. Noah Carter didn't scare easily.

Her jaw tightened. "Same as the others?"

"...Yes."

"And the smile?"

"It's there."

Another silence settled between them.

"The officers are refusing to go back inside," Noah finally said.

Scarlett glanced at the dark outline of Ravenwood Manor appearing through the rain. Its broken windows looked like empty eyes staring into the storm.

"Tell everyone to stay outside," she said quietly. "I'm going in alone."

The call ended.

Scarlett glanced at the first name in her favorites.

Aiden Vale.

Her thumb hovered over the call button.

Not yet.

If this really was what she feared, she'd need him soon enough.

As she pulled up to the rusted iron gates, lightning split the sky. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw the silhouette of a little girl standing on the second-floor balcony, watching her.

The next flash came. She was gone.

Scarlett stepped out of the car, the rain instantly soaking her coat. The cross around her neck burned hotter than ever. She looked up at the abandoned mansion.

"Let's find out why you called me."

She pushed open the gate. It groaned into the darkness.

The iron gate slammed shut behind her, the sound swallowed whole by the rain. Blue and red lights flickered across the crumbling walls of Ravenwood Manor. Yellow tape fluttered wildly in the wind as officers stood huddled together, avoiding the front entrance.

No one wanted to go inside.

The moment Scarlett stepped through the tape, conversations stopped. Some officers nodded respectfully. Others looked relieved.

Detective Noah Carter walked toward her, a thick case file tucked under one arm. He looked exhausted.

"You made good time."

Scarlett glanced at the manor. "What do we know?"

He handed her the file. "Victim's name is Daniel Brooks. Thirty-eight. Local historian."

She flipped through the first few pages. "No signs of forced entry?"

"No."

"Fingerprints?"

"None."

"Witnesses?"

Noah sighed. "Just one."

"Where is he?"

"He disappeared."

She closed the file. "Explain."

"The emergency call came from Daniel's phone at 3:16 A.M. When officers arrived..." He hesitated. "...the phone was still in his pocket."

Scarlett's expression didn't change. "So who made the call?"

"We don't know."

A cold gust swept through the courtyard. Several officers instinctively stepped back from the mansion. A young officer swallowed hard.

"I heard someone laughing upstairs."

Another quickly shook his head. "It was just the wind."

"No," the first officer whispered. "It was a little girl."

Scarlett exchanged a glance with Noah. Neither of them spoke. She had heard the same laughter over the phone.

Noah lowered his voice. "There's something else." He pointed toward the second-floor window. "Every officer who's looked up there swears they saw a little girl watching them."

Scarlett slowly lifted her eyes.

The window was empty. Dark. Silent.

Then a tiny hand slowly pressed against the dusty glass from the inside.

Five pale fingers.

Too small.

Too still.

Then it vanished, so quickly she almost questioned whether she'd imagined it.

Her cross grew hot against her skin. Not a warning. A confirmation.

A soul was trapped inside.

She closed the case file and met Noah's eyes. "Nobody comes into this house."

"You think it's dangerous?"

"I think someone in there is waiting for me."

Without another word, she walked toward the entrance. Behind her, every officer remained exactly where they were. Not one of them dared follow.

The front door creaked open with a slow, aching groan. The smell hit her first, rotting wood, mold, and something metallic. Blood.

She switched on her flashlight. Its beam cut through the darkness, revealing a grand entrance hall buried beneath years of dust. Torn wallpaper peeled from the walls, and a massive chandelier hung overhead, swaying ever so slightly.

There was no wind.

Scarlett crouched near the entrance. A fresh trail of muddy footprints led deeper into the manor. Only one set. Large. Heavy. A man's boots.

They entered the house — but never came back out.

She pulled a small notebook from her coat, jotted down the observation, and followed the trail. The floorboards groaned beneath each step.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

An old grandfather clock stood at the end of the hallway. Its hands were frozen.

3:16.

"The exact time of the phone call," she murmured. She photographed the clock.

As she lowered the camera, the second hand moved once, then stopped again.

Scarlett looked around. The hallway was empty.

A whisper brushed past her ear.

"Find me..."

She spun around. Nothing. Only silence.

She took a slow breath. "You're not here to hurt me," she said quietly into the darkness. "So help me."

The whisper disappeared.

The muddy footprints ended outside the library. The wooden door stood slightly open. Scarlett pushed it wider. A cold draft rushed past her.

Her flashlight landed on a body.

A man sat slumped in an antique chair, hands folded neatly in his lap. Daniel Brooks. His clothes were spotless. No wounds. No blood. No signs of a struggle.

Only that smile.

It stretched unnaturally across his face. Not joyful. Not peaceful. Forced. Wrong.

Scarlett stepped closer. His eyes were wide open, frozen in terror.

She slipped on a pair of gloves and examined him carefully. No bruises. No broken bones. Body temperature suggested he'd died less than two hours ago.

Then she noticed something odd, a small child's handprint pressed into the dust on Daniel's shoulder. Too small to belong to an adult.

She looked around the room. No footprints. No child.

Her cross suddenly burned against her skin. Not warm. Burning.

The room grew colder. The lights from outside flickered through the rain.

A voice, clear as day, echoed from somewhere behind her.

"...He didn't kill me."

Scarlett froze. Slowly, she turned around.

No one was there. Only an old mirror hanging above the fireplace. Its surface began to fog from the inside. A tiny finger traced four words across the glass.

HE IS STILL HERE.

The room fell silent.

Scarlett didn't take her eyes off the mirror. The words slowly faded into the fogged glass, and then there was nothing. The room became silent once more.

Her cross cooled against her skin.

She reached into her coat and pulled out her phone. One contact sat at the top of her favorites.

Aiden Vale.

She pressed call. It rang twice.

"You found one already?" a sleepy voice answered.

"I need you at Ravenwood Manor."

A pause. "Bad?"

Scarlett looked at Daniel Brooks' frozen smile. "Worse."

She ended the call.

Twenty minutes later, headlights cut through the rain outside. A young man stepped out of an old black sedan, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head.

He looked nothing like an exorcist. No robes. No holy symbols. Just a backpack slung over one shoulder.

Detective Noah Carter stopped him at the crime-scene tape. "Sorry, civilians aren't allowed—"

"I'm with her."

Noah frowned. "You're a consultant?"

Aiden smiled. "Something like that."

Scarlett walked out of the manor. "You took your time."

"I was asleep."

"You don't sleep."

"I pretend to."

She handed him a pair of latex gloves. He raised an eyebrow. "You know I don't need those."

"I know."

"But the police don't."

Aiden slipped them on anyway.

As they entered the library, his relaxed expression disappeared. He stopped walking. His breathing slowed.

"...She's here."

Scarlett watched him carefully. "You can feel her?"

He shook his head. "No. She can feel us."

The temperature in the room plummeted. The lights flickered. Daniel Brooks' lifeless head tilted ever so slightly.

Neither of them had touched the body.

Then a little girl's voice echoed through the library.

"Don't let him find me."

Aiden's eyes widened. "Scarlett..."

"She isn't talking to us."

He swallowed. "...She's talking about someone else."

The little girl's voice vanished. Silence settled over the library once again.

Aiden stood perfectly still, eyes fixed on the empty corner of the room.

"She's scared," he whispered.

"Can you see her?"

He shook his head. "No. I can only feel her." He closed his eyes. "When spirits are this frightened, they don't speak in complete sentences. Their memories are broken."

Scarlett knelt beside Daniel Brooks' body. "If she wants our help, she'll leave us something."

She searched the victim's pockets. A wallet. A broken pocket watch. A small brass key. Nothing unusual.

Then she noticed his right hand, clenched into a tight fist. She gently pried his fingers open.

Inside, a torn piece of old paper.

She unfolded it carefully. A child's drawing: a little girl holding hands with a tall man beneath a large oak tree. At the bottom, in shaky handwriting, three words.

"Find Mr. Black."

Aiden's eyes snapped open. "No..."

"What is it?"

"I've heard that name before."

"Where?"

"Another case. Three years ago. The ghost kept repeating the same name." He looked at her. "Mr. Black."

Before Scarlett could respond,

BANG!

Something heavy crashed upstairs. The entire manor trembled. Outside, the police shouted. Another crash echoed through the house.

Aiden's face turned pale. "Scarlett. This isn't the little girl."

The temperature dropped so fast their breath turned white. A deep voice rumbled through the hallway. One word, low, cold, angry.

"Leave."

The library door slammed shut. The lights went out. Darkness swallowed the room.

Then: scratch, scratch, scratch.

Scarlett lifted her flashlight. Fresh claw marks carved themselves into the wooden floor. No one was touching it.

The scratches stopped. Together, they formed a single sentence.

YOU ARE TOO LATE.

Scarlett tightened her grip on the flashlight.

She had spent years hunting the dead.

Tonight, for the first time...

something in the dark was hunting them first.