She turned toward him, smiling through her tears.
“Our son.”
Her husband looked at the telephone.
Then at the crib.
Then at the open nursery door.
He began to shake his head.
“No.”
She frowned.
“What?”
He backed away.
“That’s not possible.”
The little voice on the phone suddenly became angry.
“Mommy, tell Daddy to stop being mean.”
She looked toward her husband.
“Why are you acting like this?”
He stared at her with tears in his eyes.
“Because our son is buried in the cemetery.”
The nursery went silent.
The mother looked down at the telephone.
“Baby?”
A low, wet sound came through the receiver.
Then the little boy whispered:
“Mommy, he knows.”
She slowly looked toward the crib.
Something beneath the blue blanket began to move.
Her husband screamed.
The lights went out.
And in the darkness, a tiny voice spoke from inside the crib.
“One child enters…”
Three knocks sounded.
“…two leave.”
—
THE END.
Some doors should never be opened. Some voices should never be answered. And some things will use the people you love to find their way home.
If your dead child called you tonight, would you answer?
