Rachel laughed initially, thinking I was playing a bizarre prank. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t date your dad, that’s just too weird.” But when she saw the desperation in my eyes, her expression softened.
“I’m serious, Rachel. I think he’s in trouble, or something is happening to these women that he doesn’t even know about. I need to know what happens after the date ends,” I told her. Reluctantly, out of love for me, she finally agreed to the plan.
The date went even better than I had dared to expect. Rachel called me shortly after he dropped her off, her voice buzzing with genuine excitement. “Your dad is wonderful,” she gushed. “He’s a true gentleman. I can’t believe nobody gave him a real chance.”
I went to bed that night feeling a sense of relief. Perhaps the curse was broken. Perhaps because it was Rachel, the cycle would finally be interrupted. But the next morning, the familiar, icy dread returned when my calls to her went unanswered.
She had disappeared too. I called her three times, and each time the call went straight to voicemail. By late afternoon, the silence was deafening. I felt a knot of panic tightening in my chest as I realized my best friend was now part of the pattern.
It wasn’t until evening that she finally sent a text. It was short, cold, and entirely unlike her. “Don’t contact me. Please. I can’t do this,” the message read. I stared at the screen, knowing instinctively that those weren’t Rachel’s words.
I didn’t hesitate. I drove straight to her apartment, my mind racing with terrifying possibilities. Her car was parked in its usual spot, and I could see the warm glow of her living room lights through the window. She was home, but when I pounded on the door, nobody answered.
The following afternoon, she finally called me. Her voice was thin and shaky, devoid of its usual confidence. “I can’t explain this over the phone,” she stammered, sounding like someone who was being watched. “I’m too scared.”
“When can we meet?” I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs. I needed to see her, to know she was safe, and to finally uncover the secret that was destroying my father’s life. “Tomorrow morning,” she whispered before hanging up.
I barely slept that night, haunted by visions of what she might tell me. The next morning, I arrived at her office early, catching her just as she was walking toward the entrance. She looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes that suggested she hadn’t slept either.
“What happened, Rachel?” I demanded, grabbing her arm gently but firmly. “What did my father do? Did he threaten you? Did he say something horrible?” I was prepared for the worst, but I wasn’t prepared for the truth.
She didn’t say a word. Instead, she reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and opened a gallery of saved images. She turned the screen toward me, and as I scrolled through the photos, the blood drained from my face. It wasn’t my father she was afraid of—it was what was waiting for her in the shadows after he left.