“Dad, we need to talk,” I said, the cold kitchen tiles biting my feet.
Elias looked up from his mug, eyes clouded with the same weary resignation that had haunted our house since Mom died.
“What is it, Lily?” he asked, voice thin as paper.
I swallowed, feeling the ache of twelve lost women press against my ribs. “Every woman you’ve dated… they vanish. By morning they’re gone. No calls, no messages.”
He frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening. “I’ve told you, they just… don’t work out.”
“No, they *disappear*,” I pressed, the words spilling out like a broken faucet. “After Maren’s date, I got a call. She was terrified, saying she’d gotten a text from a contact called ‘Astra’ the minute the night ended.”
Elias’ hand trembled around his coffee cup. “Astra?” he repeated, the name sounding foreign on his tongue.
“She showed me the message on her phone. It was just three words: ‘You’re next.’” I could see the disbelief flicker in his eyes, then the dawning horror.
He leaned back, the chair creaking. “I… I never got any messages.”
“Maybe… maybe the number is blocked?” I suggested, but his silence said it all.
He stared at the window, rain tracing ghostly rivers on the glass. “If there’s a… someone sending those, I don’t know how.”
“Then we find out,” I whispered, feeling the weight of each vanished date settle on my shoulders.
The Diary and the Pact
That night, after the kitchen lights dimmed, I pulled the old cedar chest from the attic, the one Mom used to lock with a brass key.
Inside lay a leather‑bound diary, its pages yellowed, the ink fading but still legible.
My fingers trembled as I turned to a entry dated October 1947. “Elias Hart,” it read, “has agreed to the Covenant of the Veil. In exchange for protecting Miriam’s memory, a soul shall be offered each moon’s turning.”
The words were stamped in a looping script, the ink still fresh where a candle had once burned. “Astra,” the margin noted, “will be the herald.”
I felt the room tilt. The pact—an occult bargain made by my father to keep Mom’s spirit alive—required a sacrifice. Each month, a soul taken, each disappearance a ticking clock.
My mind raced, flaring between disbelief and the cold certainty of the diary’s truth. “Dad,” I whispered, “you made a deal with… with a secret group?”
Behind me, the attic floor creaked. I turned, expecting Elias, but the house was empty. The diary lay open, the next page blank, as if waiting for the next entry.
Determined, I slammed the book shut. “I’m going to stop this,” I vowed, the promise ringing louder than the rain outside.
My phone buzzed, a notification from Jonah, the tech‑savvy friend I’d called earlier. He’d been tracing the “Astra” number, promising results.
“Lily, I think I’ve found the source,” his text read. “It’s tied to an old hospice—Elysian Care. I’m pulling the records now.”
I stared at the screen, heart hammering, as the unknown number flashed again. Jonah’s screen lit up with a new incoming call from the same cryptic contact—Astra.
Jonah Traces the Ghost Number
“Give me the phone,” I said, sliding the device across the kitchen table.
Jonah’s eyes flickered over the screen, the pale glow reflecting his curiosity.
“Same number every time?” he asked, tapping a few keys.
“Astra. It shows up minutes after the date ends.”
He nodded, running a tracer. “Looks like it’s registered to a landline, not a cell.”
“A hospice?” I whispered, remembering the diary’s mention of “Elysian Care.”
He pulled up a public record. “Elysian Care—closed exactly twelve years ago, the day your mother died.”
My throat tightened. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
Jonah’s fingers danced. “The number is still active in the old system, routed through a private exchange. It’s basically a ghost line.”
“Ghost line,” I echoed, feeling the weight of every vanished woman.
He leaned back, eyes narrowed. “If the line’s still alive, something’s keeping it fed. We need to see what’s stored behind those walls.”
I clenched my fists. “Do it. Find out who’s pulling the strings.”
Jonah Hacks the Defunct Hospice
Jonah set up his laptop on the worn couch, the soft whir of the fan filling the silent apartment.
“I’ve got a backdoor into the old Elysian Care server,” he murmured, eyes scanning code.
“What are we looking for?” I asked, leaning forward.
“Any patient files tagged with ‘trigger’ or ‘affection.’”
He cracked a smile. “You won’t believe what pops up.”
His screen flickered, then a folder opened: Patient_Records/Elias_Hart.
“Elias Hart?” I whispered, the name striking a chord.
Jonah pulled the file. “He was part of a grief‑counseling experiment in ’09. They implanted a subconscious trigger—when someone feels true affection, the trigger activates and the person... disappears.”
My heart pounded. “That’s exactly what’s happening to the women.”
“And the messages? ‘Astra’ was just the automated sender, routing the trigger activation.”
He stared at the screen, his voice low. “Every activation sent a confirmation to this number.”
Suddenly, the phone in my hand buzzed, a bright line of light tracing the screen.
The caller ID flashed the same defunct number.
I hesitated, breath shallow, then swiped to answer.
A distorted voice crackled, pleading. “Lily… help… it’s me… I’m… I’m the one… the next… please…”
Answering the Call
My phone buzzed, the screen flashing the same name that haunted every night: “Astra.”
I swiped it open, heart hammering against my ribs.
“Lily…?” A voice cracked through the speaker, warped as if filtered through metal.
“Dad?” I whispered, the word tasting like ash.
His breath was ragged, a whisper of desperation tangled with static.
“I didn’t… I never meant—” He paused, a sob breaking through the distortion.
“The trigger… it’s not a curse,” he said, “it’s a program. Every night I… I unknowingly activate it when I feel love. The moment she looks at me, the signal fires.”
My mind raced. The hospice files, the hidden code— it all pointed to a single loop.
“Lily, they’re coming for you next.”
My skin prickled; the realization hit like a cold gun.
“You have to stop it.” I pressed the phone tighter, feeling the pulse of the line.
“I’m trying,” he rasped, “but the device… it’s inside the café. They built it into the wall.”
My throat tightened. “Where?”
“Bellmere. The same place where you first saw Maren disappear.”
A shiver ran down my spine. “I’m coming.”
He said nothing more, the line cutting to a thin hiss. I stared at the screen, the number blinking, a silent promise that I had minutes before the next activation.
The Showdown at Bellmere Café
I pushed through the café’s door, the scent of roasted beans masking a metallic tang.
Behind the counter, a discreet panel glowed faintly— the source of the signal.
“You.” My voice cut through the low hum, aimed at the woman in the corner, her posture rigid.
She turned, eyes sharp, the same calm that had once soothed my mother’s tears.
“Dr. Calder,” I said, the name spilling out like accusation.
She smiled, thin and practiced.
“You finally figured it out.” Her tone was almost kind.
“You used my father's grief as a key,” I shouted, “to trap every woman you ever treated.”
She lifted a thin wrist device, its surface pulsing with a faint blue light.
“The system was never supernatural,” she admitted, “just an automated trigger embedded in the hospice’s experimental protocol. We fed Elias’s trauma into the algorithm; once a subject felt true affection, the device would reroute their neural signature to our server, erasing them from the world.”
Heat rose in my cheeks as the truth settled.
“You kept him dependent on loss, on me, so you could control the data.”
She nodded, her expression unreadable.
Without hesitation, I ripped the panel off the wall, exposing a tangled mesh of wires.
“No more,” I whispered, and smashed the core with the metal leg of my chair.
Sparks flew, the blue light sputtering out, a high‑pitched whine filling the room.
Behind us, the café lights flickered, then steadied, as if exhaling.
Silence fell, broken only by the distant wail of a siren outside.
My phone buzzed one last time, the “Astra” number now dead.
🔓
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