MY CO-WORKER FROZE WHEN THE TV SHOWED HER GRANDMA’S HOUSE ON THE NEWS
The fluorescent lights hummed over our cubicles as the breaking news report began. Everyone stopped typing when the anchor said ‘local residence’ and showed an aerial view. The low hum of the office fluorescent lights suddenly felt deafening as the camera panned slowly across a familiar, slightly dilapidated front yard. Sarah, usually so bubbly, went utterly still beside me.
My stomach dropped as the camera zoomed in on a familiar porch swing, chipped paint, and a patch of overgrown rose bushes I’d seen in her vacation photos. “That’s my grandma’s house,” Sarah whispered, her voice barely audible, a fragile thread of sound. It was tinged with something I couldn’t quite place, but it felt like deep dread mixed with disbelief.
The reporter then started talking about a ‘person of interest’ and the details of a disappearance that had been reported earlier this week from that very address. A sudden, cold sweat prickled my skin, not from the office’s weak AC, but from the chilling realization dawning on me. Sarah’s face drained of all color, turning ashen, her eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the screen.
Just as the reporter mentioned a crucial clue found *inside* the house — something about a specific, antique locket — Sarah’s phone vibrated violently on her desk. The buzzing sound cut through the tense silence, a jarring intrusion. The number flashing on the screen was one I didn’t recognize, but it seemed to hold an ominous weight.
Then her phone screen flashed, “Incoming Call: Sheriff’s Department,” and she just stared.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…The phone buzzed again, a frantic pulse in the otherwise frozen tableau. Sarah, still transfixed by the screen, seemed to be struggling to breathe. Her fingers, usually tapping away at her keyboard, remained curled into tight fists. Finally, with a visible effort, she reached out, her hand trembling, and answered the phone.
“Hello?” she managed, her voice a mere whisper.
The reporter on the screen continued droning on, oblivious to the drama unfolding in our little corner of the office. The sound of the news report seemed to fade as a one-sided conversation began. I leaned closer, fighting the urge to crane my neck and strain to hear the caller’s end of the conversation. Sarah’s face cycled through a spectrum of emotions – shock, fear, confusion, and then, a flicker of grim resolve.
After what felt like an eternity, she hung up. The silence that followed was heavier than before, pregnant with unspoken words. She turned to me, her eyes now brimming with tears. “They… they found her,” she choked out. “And… they need me to go there.”
The details of the news report suddenly morphed, shifting from impersonal journalism to a personal tragedy. I wanted to reach out, to offer comfort, but I was rooted to my chair, paralyzed by the weight of her grief.
“I have to go,” she repeated, gathering her things with a surprising swiftness, her earlier paralysis replaced with a frantic energy. She grabbed her purse, her keys, and headed for the door.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t wait?” I asked weakly, feeling utterly helpless.
She paused, turning back to me. Her face was streaked with tears, but her gaze held a newfound strength. “No,” she said, her voice now clear, laced with a chilling finality. “I need to see for myself. And… I need to know the truth.”
With that, she was gone. The fluorescent lights still hummed, the news report still played, but the office felt emptier than ever before. I sat there, numb, staring at the empty space where Sarah had been, the chilling reality of her grandmother’s disappearance finally sinking in.
A few days later, the office was quiet again. I hadn’t heard from Sarah, and the air was thick with a shared sense of loss and bewilderment. Then, I received an email from her. It was short and to the point:
“I’m okay. It was my grandma. I’m handling things. Don’t worry about me. Thank you for your support.”
There was no mention of the locket or the ‘person of interest’. Only an absence and a finality that spoke volumes. The email ended with one sentence, a chillingly clear closure: “I’m leaving town. I’ll let you know when I’m back.”
That was all.
I later heard she had sold her house, and left. I never saw her again. And the truth of what happened, what Sarah knew, and what she did, remained a secret, lost forever in the silence that descended upon her empty desk. The only thing that remained, was the lingering memory of her face that day in the office, and the terrifying knowledge that sometimes, the horrors we see on the news can be all too real.