The message from the stranger arrived at 3 AM.
Elena stared at her phone, heart hammering. The text contained no words—just a photograph of her grandmother's antique locket. The one buried with her three years ago.
She deleted the message. Blocked the number. Tried to convince herself it was photoshopped, a cruel prank, anything but what it suggested.
The second message came at 3:03.
This time, a video. Shaky footage of a cemetery at night, moonlight gleaming on wet grass. The camera approached a familiar headstone—Margaret Chen, 1941-2023, Beloved Mother and Grandmother—and panned down to fresh earth beside it. Someone had been digging.
Elena's finger hovered over the call button. Who would she even call? The police? Officer, someone sent me a video of my grandmother's grave being disturbed, but I can't prove it's recent, and yes, I know how this sounds.
The third message arrived before she could decide.
"Check the box under your bed."
Elena's blood went cold. She lived alone on the fourth floor. Her doors were locked, windows sealed against the November chill. No one had access to her apartment.
She knew she shouldn't look. Every horror movie she'd ever seen screamed at her to grab her keys and run. But her legs were already moving, carrying her to the bedroom, lowering her to her knees beside the bed frame.
Her hand reached into the darkness beneath.
Her fingers touched velvet.
No. Impossible.
She pulled out a small jewelry box—antique, midnight blue, with a silver clasp shaped like a rose. Her grandmother's jewelry box. The one Elena had placed in the casket herself, along with the locket inside it.
With trembling hands, she opened the lid.
Empty.
A fourth message illuminated her face in the darkness.
"Now you're ready to listen. Tomorrow, 8 PM, Riverside Park. Bring the photograph from your nightstand drawer. You know which one. Come alone, or you'll never learn why she really died."
Elena grabbed her nightstand drawer, scattering contents across the floor. Beneath old receipts and forgotten earrings, she found it—a Polaroid she'd never seen before. Her grandmother, years younger, standing beside a man with kind eyes and a dangerous smile. On the back, in her grandmother's handwriting:
"Some secrets stay buried. Others dig themselves free."
The timestamp on the photo read: August 15, 1963.
Two months before Elena's mother was born.
#fiction #mystery #shortstory #serialized