The call came in at 9:17 p.m.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.
There was a pause, then a trembling child’s voice:
“Help… my parents, they…”
A rustle.
Then a deep voice snapped:
“Who are you talking to? Give me the phone!”
Click. Silence.
Dispatcher Emily Grant frowned and noted the address from the system. The voice—the child’s—was low and trembling, not panicked, but something about it felt… unnatural. Too quiet. Too practiced. Like a whisper forced through clenched teeth.
She flagged the call and forwarded it to the nearest patrol unit. Officers David Ramirez and Lena Cho were already on a quiet loop nearby, responding to nothing more urgent than a raccoon in a trash bin.
But now they had something else.
As the squad car slowed to a stop in front of the house, both officers took in the scene. A pristine two-story home with white shutters and a freshly mowed lawn. A porch light glowed warmly, and wind chimes clinked gently in the summer breeze.
“Looks fine,” Ramirez muttered.
“Too fine,” Cho replied. “Let’s check it.”
They stepped out. Ramirez knocked firmly on the front door. A few seconds passed.
Then it opened.
A boy stood there—seven, maybe eight. Dark hair combed neatly, pajama shirt buttoned to the collar. His brown eyes were too serious for a child. No tears. No visible fear. Just… stillness.
“Hey there,” Ramirez said gently. “Were you the one who called us?”
The boy nodded once and stepped aside, wordlessly inviting them in. His voice was almost a whisper.
“My parents… they’re in there.”
He pointed toward a dim hallway, toward a door that stood ajar.
Cho knelt beside him. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“James.”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
He shook his head, pressing his back to the wall, eyes locked on the hallway like something was watching him from the dark.
Ramirez gestured to Cho. “Stay with him.”
He moved slowly toward the door James had indicated. The closer he got, the colder the air seemed to become. Something in the atmosphere had shifted—like the silence wasn’t emptiness, but pressure.
He reached the door and pushed it gently.
The room beyond was a bedroom, dimly lit by the soft yellow glow of a bedside lamp.
And there… were the parents.
They lay side by side on the bed. Eyes closed. Hands folded neatly across their chests. Like sleeping statues. Too still. Too pale.
Ramirez stepped closer, heart pounding.
“Sir? Ma’am?”
No answer.
He touched the woman’s wrist.
Cold.
No pulse.
He leaned over the man. Same. Lifeless. But no visible injuries, no blood, no trauma. Just two corpses, as if they’d gone to sleep and forgotten how to wake up.
“Cho,” he called, throat tightening. “Get backup. We’ve got two DOA.”
Cho looked up sharply, stood, and reached for her radio.
Ramirez scanned the room for clues. On the nightstand, two empty glasses. A half-empty bottle of wine. But no pill bottles, no drugs, no signs of overdose. On the dresser—family photos. Smiling parents with their son at the zoo. At a birthday party. At a beach.
A perfect life, captured in frames.
So why did it feel like the air itself was watching him?
Cho’s voice crackled over the radio, requesting a crime scene unit and medical examiner. Then she turned back to James.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she said, kneeling again. “Can you tell me what happened? Did your mom and dad… take something?”
James’s lips parted, and for the first time, his voice had a note of something different.
Calm. Too calm.
“They weren’t my parents.”
Cho blinked. “What?”
He looked up at her with that same expressionless face.
“They weren’t my real parents. They came here a few weeks ago. Took their place.”
Cho froze.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… they copied them. Walked like them. Talked like them. But I knew they weren’t right.” He glanced toward the hallway. “They didn’t sleep. They whispered in the walls. At night, they stared at me through the cracks in the door.”
Ramirez returned just in time to hear that.
“Lena. Get him out of here. Something’s wrong.”
Cho took James gently by the hand, but the boy didn’t move.
“I fixed it,” he whispered.
Ramirez’s stomach turned. “What do you mean, James?”
“They kept saying I’d be next. That it was almost time for me to change, too.” He looked at them. “So I made sure it didn’t happen.”
Ramirez’s voice dropped. “James, what did you do?”
The boy finally smiled—thin and hollow.
“I gave them something special in their tea. It put them to sleep forever.”
Cho’s blood went cold.
“You… poisoned them?”
James shrugged slightly.
“Better than becoming one of them. Right?”
Behind them, the hallway light flickered.
Ramirez turned. His hand hovered near his weapon.
Then the front door slammed shut on its own.
Cho grabbed James’s hand tightly.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
But James didn’t move.
“I thought it was over,” he whispered. “But it’s not. They’re still here.”
From down the hallway came the unmistakable sound of movement.
The creak of floorboards.
Two sets of slow, heavy footsteps.
Ramirez stepped in front of Cho and James, drawing his sidearm.
“Who’s there?! Police!”
The light at the end of the hallway blew out with a pop, plunging it into shadow.
Then a voice—low, gurgling, inhuman—whispered:
“James… you promised.”
The boy’s face went pale.
“I tried,” he murmured. “I tried to stop them…”
The footsteps came closer.
And the room down the hall opened once more.