No screams. No sign of struggle. Just a phone lying on the hallway floor, screen still glowing with the last message sent:
'Cause it's over.
Detective Marla Venn stood in the dim corridor, breathing in the stillness. It was the third one this month. Same pattern. Same message. Same vanishing. Three people, each last seen alone in their homes—no forced entry, no security footage, no trace. All that remained each time was a phone and that same text.
The recipients didn’t know the sender. No contact. No records. Nothing.
This one had been a man in his late thirties. Lived alone. Accountant. Neighbours said he was quiet, polite. He'd been watering his plants that morning. By nightfall, he was gone.
“Third in three weeks,” Marla murmured, crouching next to the phone. Her partner, Rakesh, hovered behind her, notebook in hand. “No trace?” he asked. She shook her head. “Nothing. Not a hair. Not a fingerprint. Just the phone and that damn message.” Rakesh swallowed. “Think it’s a serial abductor?”
“No,” she said flatly. “There’s no break-in. No struggle. No resistance. It’s like they… left willingly.”
He frowned. “But why?”
Marla stood slowly. Her eyes drifted to the hallway mirror.
Something was wrong with the reflection.
She saw her reflection. Rakesh. And behind them, a figure. Out of focus. Standing perfectly still at the end of the hallway.
She turned sharply.
No one there.
“Did you see that?”
“No,” Rakesh said quickly, eyes darting. “Nothing.”
But his face had drained of colour.
Back at the station, Marla pulled the phone's data. Only one outgoing message. No other texts. No calls. No apps opened. Just that one line.
Then the screen flickered.
The phone buzzed in her hand.
A new message appeared. No number. No sender.
Just words:
'Cause it's over.
She dropped the phone.
The light above her desk blinked out.
She turned to the glass window separating the bullpen from the hallway.