Maya’s phone buzzed as she was locking up the café late one night. A voicemail — from her mom. Strange, considering her mom had passed away six months ago.
Heart hammering, Maya pressed play.
At first, all she heard was static. Then, faintly, her mother’s voice:
"Sweetheart... I'm sorry... I can't leave yet. He's here. Don’t come home."
Maya froze. The café’s glass door showed her reflection — but something behind her moved.
Something tall, with hollow eyes, grinning as it stepped closer.
Her phone buzzed again. Another voicemail. Same number. Same voice, whispering:
"Too late."
The lights flickered out
