I opened the contact details on the burner phone to see the phone number that had just messaged me.
There was no number. The sender field was entirely blank.
I checked the burner phone’s settings to see its network connection. No SIM card was inserted. The Wi-Fi was toggled off. Airplane mode was enabled.
It was impossible for the phone to receive texts. It wasn’t connected to a cell tower.
A sharp buzz rattled through the plastic casing of the burner phone in my right hand. A new message appeared on its own screen:
Look at the timestamp on the video file.
My fingers felt numb as I exited the messaging app and opened the video properties. I scrolled down to the file metadata.
Date Created: October 14, 2029. Time: 11:42 PM.
Three years in the future.
My mind reeled. “No, no, that’s absurd,” I muttered, shaking my head. “It’s just a set clock. Someone manual-set the camera date to mess with whoever found it.”
I looked down at the video thumbnail again.
On the yellow velvet sofa in the background of the video, half-hidden behind a throw pillow, was a framed photograph on the wall. I stepped closer to the screen, pinching to zoom in on the tiny image in the video frame.
It was a wedding photo. Me, wearing a grey suit, holding hands with a woman with short dark hair—someone I had never met in my life. On my left wrist in the photo was a thick silver watch I didn’t own.
I dropped both phones onto the rug as if they were red-hot coals.
My phone vibrated on the floor. I didn’t want to look, but the glow forced my eyes down.
You’re changing things, the message read. You weren’t supposed to find the phone until tonight at 11:42 PM.
A soft, heavy sound echoed from the dark hallway leading to the basement—the distinct sound of a heavy coat fabric brushing against the doorframe.
I backed up until my heels hit the yellow sofa. “Who are you?” I yelled, grabbing a brass desk lamp off the side table and holding it like a club.
From the shadows of the hall, a voice answered. It wasn’t loud, nor was it threatening. It was exhausted, hoarse, and horribly familiar. It was my own voice.
“Pick up the phone,” the voice whispered from the dark. “If you don’t delete the file right now, she dies in three years.”
I stared into the black opening of the hallway, my hands trembling around the lamp, as the heavy, deliberate footsteps began to walk into the light.
