Part 2 — The Door Was Never Empty

The station went silent after the call.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Even the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead seemed quieter, like they too were listening.

The detective slowly lowered the phone.

“My door,” he repeated, voice tight.

Then—

creeeeeak.

A sound from behind us.

We all turned at once.

The back hallway door inside the police station was swinging open, inch by inch, as if pushed by an invisible hand.

A cold draft swept through the room.

One officer muttered, “That’s… not funny.”

But no one was laughing.

The detective stepped forward.

Gun drawn.

“Who’s there?”

Silence.

Then the door stopped moving.

Just… open.

Waiting.

The air smelled wrong.

Not like rain or night.

Like damp wood.

Like something closed up for too long.

The detective snapped his fingers.

“Jackson. Lee. With me.”

Two officers followed, hesitant but armed.

I stayed frozen near the front desk, my heart hammering so hard it hurt.

The detective glanced back at me.

“You. Stay here.”

I should’ve listened.

I didn’t.

Because curiosity isn’t just loud.

It’s reckless.

And I needed to know why Nancy Guthrie’s voice was crawling out of places it didn’t belong.

I followed them.

Quietly.

The hallway was narrow, lit by one flickering bulb.

The kind of hallway that feels longer at night.

Each step echoed too much.

The open door led to the records room.

A cramped space filled with old filing cabinets and boxes of forgotten paperwork.

The detective swept his flashlight across the room.

Nothing.

No one.

Just dust.

Then—

The phone buzzed again.

This time it wasn’t mine.

Officer Lee’s.

He looked down.

His face drained of color.

The detective whispered, “What is it?”

Lee swallowed.

“It’s… her.”

The detective grabbed the phone.

Incoming call:

Nancy Guthrie.

He answered immediately.

“Where are you?”

Static.

Breathing.

Then her voice came through clearer than before.

Not weak.

Not scared.

Almost amused.

“You keep looking in the wrong places.”

The detective’s jaw clenched.

“We traced your call. It came from your house.”

A pause.

Then Nancy whispered:

“No…”

Her voice dropped, turning soft as fog.

“It came from inside me.”

The line went dead.

Officer Jackson cursed under his breath.

“What the hell does that mean?”

The detective didn’t answer.

Because something else had caught his attention.

A filing cabinet.

One drawer was slightly open.

That wasn’t unusual.

Except…

A thin trail of water was leaking from it.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The detective stepped closer.

Slowly pulled the drawer open.

Inside wasn’t paperwork.

Inside was mud.

Wet soil.

Dark and fresh, like it had been dug up minutes ago.

And lying on top…

Was a necklace.

Silver.

Small.

With an “N” charm.

Officer Lee whispered, “That’s hers…”

The detective stared at it, breathing hard.

Then his radio crackled.

“Detective Harlan?”

His hand moved fast.

“Yes.”

A shaky voice replied:

“We just got a report… from Nancy Guthrie’s house.”

The detective stiffened.

“What kind of report?”

The dispatcher hesitated.

Then—

“The front door is open.”

My stomach dropped.

The detective barked, “Was it open before?”

“No,” the dispatcher said. “Her husband locked it. Officers were posted outside.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“They’re saying… someone is singing.”

The detective went still.

“Singing?”

“Yes.”

“A woman’s voice.”

The room felt suddenly too small.

Officer Jackson whispered, “That’s impossible…”

But deep down, we all knew the truth.

Impossible didn’t matter anymore.

The detective turned sharply.

“We’re going. Now.”

We rushed outside.

Rain hit like needles.

Squad cars tore through the streets, sirens slicing the night open.

I sat in the backseat, shaking.

My phone felt heavy in my pocket.

Like a living thing.

When we reached Nancy’s street, the neighborhood was lit in red and blue.

Officers stood frozen near the porch.

One of them turned toward us.

His face looked sick.

“She’s inside,” he whispered.

The detective stepped forward.

“Who is?”

The officer swallowed.

“The voice.”

The front door was open.

Just like the call had said.

The detective raised his gun.

“Clear the house.”

Officers moved in.

Flashlights swept across the walls.

Living room.

Kitchen.

Empty.

Too quiet.

Then—

From upstairs…

A soft humming.

A lullaby.

Nancy’s lullaby.

The detective’s voice cracked.

“Nancy?”

The humming stopped.

Then her voice drifted down like smoke.

“You answered.”

The detective swallowed.

“Where are you?”

A pause.

Then—

“I’m home.”

The detective stepped onto the first stair.

And the voice whispered, sweet as poison:

“Come upstairs.”

He hesitated.

Every instinct screamed not to.

But the detective climbed.

One step.

Two.

Three.

The humming returned.

And then…

My phone buzzed again.

I looked down.

Incoming call:

Nancy Guthrie.

But this time…

The caller ID didn’t just show her name.

It showed something else beneath it.

A location.

INSIDE THE HOUSE.

And then the screen changed.

One final message appeared:

YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE ANSWERED.