Rachel laughed when I first made the suggestion, thinking I was playing a prank. “Is this real?” she asked, her eyes wide with amusement. I didn’t laugh back. I looked her straight in the eye and told her, “It is very much real, and I need your help to save my father’s sanity.”
With a bit of hesitation and a lot of curiosity, she eventually agreed. We set it up as a casual meet-up at a local bistro. I watched from a distance as they met, and to my relief, the chemistry was palpable. They talked for hours, and Rachel looked genuinely engaged in everything he had to say.
After the date, Rachel called me, sounding breathless and impressed. “Your dad is absolutely wonderful,” she told me over the phone. “He’s charming, he’s a gentleman, and he’s incredibly funny. I’m actually surprised nobody stayed with him. I’d honestly go out with him again.”
I felt a surge of hope, but it was short-lived. True to the curse, by the next morning, Rachel had disappeared. I sent her a text asking how she was feeling, and I received no response. I called her during her lunch break, and it went straight to voicemail. The pattern was repeating itself with my best friend.
By that evening, I finally received a message, but it wasn’t the one I expected. It was a short, cold text that read: “Don’t contact me about this again. Please. I can’t talk to you right now.” My heart dropped into my stomach. Rachel would never speak to me that way.
Panic set in. I drove straight to her apartment, fearing the worst. Her car was parked in its usual spot, and I could see the soft glow of her television through the window, but when I knocked, there was no answer. She was hiding from me, terrified of something I couldn’t comprehend.
The following afternoon, she finally called me back. Her voice was trembling, brittle like dry glass. “I can’t say anything over the phone,” she whispered, her breathing shallow. “I don’t know who is listening or what might happen if I speak it out loud.”
I was frantic by this point, demanding to know when we could meet face-to-face. “Tomorrow morning,” she said firmly. “Meet me at the park near my office. Somewhere open. Somewhere where we can see everyone coming from a mile away.”
Sleep was an impossible luxury that night. I tossed and turned, imagining every horrific scenario possible. Was my father a secret monster? Was he being stalked? Or was something even more sinister at play that transcended simple human behavior?
Morning finally came, and I was waiting at the park thirty minutes early. When Rachel arrived, she looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she kept glancing over her shoulder as she approached the bench where I was sitting.
“What happened?” I demanded, grabbing her hands. “What did my father do? Did he hurt you? Did he say something threatening?” I was prepared for a confession of villainy, but the truth was far more complex and chilling than a simple case of a bad date.
Rachel didn’t speak at first. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. Her hands shook as she unlocked the screen and opened a gallery of saved messages and photos. “It wasn’t your father,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s what happens after he leaves.”