* **”They Have Your Mother”: A Phone Call Nightmare**

A STRANGER’S VOICE ON THE PHONE SAID, “WE HAVE YOUR MOTHER.”

The phone buzzed, a strange number, and I picked up, expecting a telemarketer, not this.

The voice was low, raspy, definitely not someone I knew, asking, “Are you Mary Jenkins’ daughter?” My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I could almost feel a bruise forming.

“Who *is* this? What do you want?” I demanded, my hand shaking so violently the cheap plastic phone case creaked like it might shatter. He just chuckled, a dry, unsettling sound that smelled faintly of stale cigarettes, even through the line. “We have Mary. She’s… unwell. Very unwell.”

Unwell? My mother lived hundreds of miles away, completely independent, enjoying her retirement. I pictured her knitting by the window, surrounded by her favorite scent of lavender and fresh-baked bread, not in some strange person’s custody. This had to be a cruel joke, a scam.

Then he said, “She mentioned a place. A small cottage, near the old mill. Said it was important. Does that mean anything to you? She keeps muttering about it.” The hairs on my arms stood up. I didn’t know any cottage.

A sudden loud *CRACK* sound, like wood splitting under immense pressure, echoed from his end of the line. It was followed by a muffled shout, then a sickening thud. The line went dead with a soft click, leaving an unnerving silence.

And then my mother’s real voice, clear as a bell, called from the kitchen, asking about dinner.

👇 Full story continued in the comments…My legs nearly gave out. I stumbled, knocking over the small table in the hallway, its contents scattering across the linoleum. How could this be happening? I felt a wave of icy dread wash over me, a premonition of something terrible.

I ran to the kitchen, where my mother was humming as she stirred a pot on the stove. “Mom?” I gasped, my voice barely a whisper.

She turned, a wooden spoon in her hand, a puzzled expression on her face. “Mary, dear, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“The phone… a call… they said…” I trailed off, struggling to articulate the nightmare that had just unfolded. “They said they had you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Had me? What are you talking about?”

I recounted the conversation, the raspy voice, the unsettling details. When I got to the cottage near the old mill, her eyes widened, a flicker of recognition flashing across her face. It was gone almost as fast as it came.

“The mill…?” she repeated, her voice now laced with a tremor. “I… I used to play there as a child. A long time ago. But the cottage…” She shook her head, dismissing the thought. “It must be a coincidence.”

But I knew better.

Over the next few days, the unease gnawed at me. The phone call, the unsettling details, the chilling *CRACK* sound – it was a puzzle I couldn’t solve, a threat I couldn’t ignore. We found no traces of the call originating from a phone line near our house, even though I had recorded it immediately. When I tried calling the strange number back, it went straight to voice mail, a recording that was oddly comforting and made me think that I was making up the entire story.

Finally, driven by a desperate need to understand, to protect my mother, I did the only thing I could. I booked a flight.

The cottage, or what remained of it, was even more dilapidated than the voice on the phone had suggested. It was nestled at the edge of a overgrown forest, barely clinging to existence. The old mill was a crumbling ruin, its rusted gears silent, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay.

I walked through the old house, the door creaking open at my touch. The inside had been ransacked. Dust-covered furniture lay overturned, books were scattered across the floor. Then, in the last room, I found it. A hidden compartment behind a bookshelf. Inside, I saw two small, wooden dolls, and a letter.

The letter was addressed to my mother, the handwriting shaky and almost illegible, but I could make out the first line. “Mary, I’m sorry for what I’ve done. But the cottage is important, for our survival.”

My mother had been a child once and had a best friend whose father owned the mill. After a great fire, they were never seen again. The letter was obviously from the missing girl.

I knew, then, that I wasn’t alone, that the voice on the phone wasn’t just a random stranger. I also realized my mother had been hiding something, something connected to this long-forgotten tragedy.

I returned home, the truth heavy on my shoulders. When I got home, my mother was there, humming in the kitchen. But this time, her smile seemed forced, her eyes held a chilling emptiness I’d never seen before.

“Mary, dear,” she said, her voice as clear as a bell. “You wouldn’t believe the call I just got, it was a shame, my phone was acting up. Someone’s trying to sell me this cottage, the one near the old mill! Can you believe it?”

Before I could answer, she turned and reached for the wooden spoon. I stared at her, then at the kitchen window. I knew that the house behind was not hers, nor was I her daughter. I looked back, then the wood spoon was raised, a glint of metal beneath her sleeve.

I ran out of the house, with the last thought echoing in my ears, as the sounds of a sickening thud filled the room. The last thing that went through my mind, was that this was all some kind of terrible joke.