My son hadn’t answered the phone for two weeks, so I decided to go to his house. When I arrived, the unlocked door and the ransacked living room sent a chill down my spine. Then, I heard it—a faint scraping sound from under my grandson’s bed. When the police lifted the bed, what we found left us all in shock.

***

I still remember it perfectly. On that fateful day, I took the first bus to Chicago. During the three-hour ride, I didn’t say a single word. My eyes were glued to the window, and my heart was tied in a knot. I told myself to calm down, but my hands trembled as I held the ticket. When I got off at the main terminal, it was already getting dark.

I walked quickly toward the gated community where my son, Daniel, lived. It was the same path I had walked dozens of times to visit him and Matthew, my grandson. But this time, every step felt heavy, like I was walking into a nightmare. Standing in front of the familiar wooden door, I knocked—first gently, then with more and more force.

“Daniel? Matthew?” I shouted, but my voice broke in the cold air. No one answered.

I put my hand on the doorknob just to try my luck. When I turned it slightly, the door creaked open. It was unlocked. My heart started pounding a thousand miles an hour. Daniel *never* left the door unlocked. He was always so careful, especially when Matthew was home.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, holding my breath as if the slightest noise could shatter everything. The scene I saw left me frozen. The living room was a mess, as if there had been a fight. The sofa was pushed out of place, and a coffee mug was shattered into a thousand pieces on the floor, the white porcelain shards mixed with a dark, dried coffee stain. In the kitchen, the water cooler jug was tipped on its side, and several empty water bottles were rolling on the floor, uncapped, as if someone had chugged them down in desperation. The smell of dampness and the oppressive silence of the house sent a chill down my spine.

I went upstairs, my heart beating so loud I could hear it in my ears. I opened the door to Daniel’s home office—empty. His bedroom was empty, too. Finally, I reached Matthew’s room.

“Matthew, where are you, sweetie?” I called out, my voice hoarse. No one answered.

I stood in the middle of the room, looking at his toys—the Lego blocks, his old teddy bear—and I felt like my heart was going to break. Suddenly, a small noise came from under the bed: a scraping sound, like a plastic bottle rolling on the hardwood floor.

I froze. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest. *There was something under the bed.* I wanted to bend down and look, but my feet felt glued to the floor.

“Matthew?” I called out again, but only silence answered me.

Panic took over. I ran out of the house, my hands shaking so badly I had to dial 911 three times to get it right.

“My son is missing! I haven’t heard from him in two weeks!” I practically screamed into the phone. “There’s a strange noise under my grandson’s bed!” I stammered, not even sure what I was saying. I just knew I needed someone to come, and fast.

In less than ten minutes, the red and blue lights of a patrol car lit up the windows. I led the two police officers to Matthew’s room and, with a shaky finger, I pointed at the bed. “Under there,” I whispered.

A young, tall officer knelt down and said in a firm voice, “Is anyone under there?”

A heavy silence filled the room. Then, without another word, the two officers lifted the bed in one single motion. And there I saw him.

It was Matthew, my grandson, curled up underneath. He was so thin, his hair matted with sweat, and his clothes were filthy. He was clutching an empty water bottle, his eyes wide open and expressionless, as if he were looking into a world I couldn’t reach. I stood there, paralyzed, my heart stopped. The two officers were also in shock, unable to say a word.

I fell to my knees, wanting to hug him, but my hands were shaking too much. “Matthew, my boy,” I whispered, tears welling up. He didn’t respond. He just stayed there, clinging to his bottle as if it were the last thing keeping him alive.

I didn’t know what had happened, but I knew this nightmare was just beginning.

***

My name is Helen. I’m 61 years old. My story begins one morning in late October when I first realized Daniel was gone. For two eternal weeks, I lived with an anxiety that had no answers. I called him at all hours, left voicemails filled with a trembling voice, and sent messages that were never delivered. Daniel wasn’t the type to just disappear. He was a dedicated father, a caring son. This silence was not like him at all.

By the fifth day, the anxiety was eating me alive. I called his friends and co-workers. No one had seen him. On the tenth day, I called his neighbors. An elderly woman across the street told me that on the night of the storm, she saw a light in Daniel’s house suddenly turn on and then off. Her words stabbed my heart like a knife. Two weeks passed, and all my efforts were in vain. I couldn’t stand it for another minute. I decided to go to Daniel’s house myself, and what I found only made my anguish grow.

Now, I’m sitting in the dim light of a hospital room. A police officer carried Matthew from that cold house, and I, like a soulless shadow, ran after them. Matthew didn’t react. Not a blink, not a sigh. His little hands clutched the empty water bottle as if it were the last thing anchoring him to this life.

At the hospital, doctors and nurses rushed him into the emergency room. I stayed outside, my hands pressed against the glass door, watching them move quickly around him. The sound of machines mixed with their hurried voices: *”No external injuries… severe malnutrition… severe dehydration… signs of psychological trauma.”*

Every word was like a stab to the heart. *Psychological trauma.* My eight-year-old grandson, a boy who always smiled like the morning sun, was now so thin, like a dry leaf.

A little later, a doctor let me in. Matthew was on an IV, a thin tube connected to his skinny arm. His eyes were still open, but they weren’t looking at me. They were looking at a distant, unreachable place.

I took his cold little hand. “Matthew, it’s me, Grandma. Wake up. Please say something.” But he didn’t respond.

The police arrived with their notebooks and questions. “Ma’am, could you tell us when you last had contact with Mr. Daniel?”

“It’s been two weeks,” I said, my voice trembling. “Daniel would never do something like this.”

The officer jotted down notes. “We’re opening a missing person case. Could you come with us to the precinct to give a full statement?”

“Let me stay with my grandson,” I begged. “I can’t leave him alone right now.”

That night, I sat by his bed, watching him tremble in his sleep. He clutched the empty water bottle tightly, even in his dreams, as if afraid someone would take it from him. He would jolt awake, his eyes wide with terror, but he wouldn’t say anything. Just look at me with that empty gaze.

Two days passed. I didn’t move from his bedside. I tried to feed him some broth, spoonful by spoonful. “Eat, Matthew, sweetie, so you can get strong and go home with grandma,” I whispered, but he barely swallowed.

Every night was the same. He had nightmares, sitting up suddenly in bed, his mouth open as if trying to scream, but no sound came out. I asked for a psychologist, a young woman with a sweet voice. She sat next to him and asked gentle questions, but he just hugged his teddy bear tighter, his eyes on the floor.

On the morning of the third day, as I was cleaning his face, my phone vibrated. It was the police precinct.

“Mrs. Helen, I need you to prepare yourself,” the detective’s grave voice said. “We just used Luminol to re-examine Mr. Daniel’s house, and we found a very large amount of blood in the living room.”

My ears went numb. The washcloth in my hand fell to the floor. “Blood?” I repeated, my voice breaking.

“It’s very likely we’re dealing with a homicide,” the detective continued.

I was barely processing his words when Matthew tugged hard on my sleeve. I turned and saw his red, tear-filled eyes. And then, after so many days of silence, he burst into tears, a heartbreaking cry that shattered the calm of the hospital room.

“Dad… he’s dead!” he screamed, his voice weak but full of pain, as if his entire world had just collapsed.

***

An hour later, a young officer sat by Matthew’s bed. “Matthew,” he said softly, “can you tell us what happened?”

I felt my grandson tremble in my arms. I stroked his hair and whispered, “It’s okay, Matthew. Grandma is right here with you.”

After a few minutes of silence, Matthew nodded slightly. I held my breath and listened to each of his weak, broken words.

“That night… it was raining really hard,” he began, his voice a whisper. “I was playing with my Legos… and then the doorbell rang many times.” He paused, squeezing his teddy bear. “Dad was at the door… his face was very tense. I’d never seen him like that.”

My blood ran cold.

“He ran to me,” Matthew continued, “and whispered, ‘Matthew, get under the bed quickly. Don’t come out until I call for you. You hear me?’ He pushed me toward my room and pulled the comforter down so no one could see me.”

I pictured my little boy, huddled in the dark, and my heart ached.

“Through a little gap,” Matthew said, “I saw my mom come in with a very tall man. His face was very cold.”

I froze. Jessica, Matthew’s mom, Daniel’s ex-wife. I never thought she would come back.

“My mom looked around and asked, ‘Where is Matthew?’ Dad told her he went to his grandma’s. I knew he was lying, but I didn’t dare to move.”

Hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

“Then my mom started yelling at him,” he trembled. “She was asking for money… something about a debt. But Dad shook his head. He told her she had gone too far.”

The memory was dragging him back to that night of terror. I rubbed his back. “Take it easy, sweetie.”

He took a deep breath. “My mom and the tall man started fighting. He pushed my dad. Dad stumbled… and then he pushed him harder. Dad fell and hit his head on the corner of the table. There was a loud thud… and red water started coming out.”

Matthew trembled uncontrollably, hiding his face in my chest and bursting into tears. “I saw Dad lying there… not moving. I wanted to come out… but I was so scared. I was so scared!”

I hugged him with all my strength, my own tears soaking his hair. The image of Daniel falling replayed in my mind like a nightmare.

“This statement is very important, Mrs. Helen,” the officer said gravely. “We are going to investigate this as a possible homicide. The boy has been very brave.”

I nodded, but inside I felt an emptiness that nothing could fill. I looked at the officer. “Are you going to find her? Jessica and that man?”

He nodded firmly. “We will do everything possible, Mrs. Helen. I promise you.”

***

The story of Daniel and Jessica was a tragedy that had been building for years. I remembered when he first introduced her, his eyes full of love. She was a good girl then. But gambling changed her. Daniel sold his car to pay her debts. I used my life savings to pay off collectors who came to my door. Jessica became irritable, cruel. Daniel finally divorced her and fought for custody of Matthew. We thought the nightmare was over. We were wrong.

The police investigation moved quickly. A neighbor’s security camera recorded a suspicious truck on the night of the storm. In the back, something long was covered with a tarp. The model matched one used by a local loan shark gang. Jessica’s landlady confirmed she had left in a hurry two weeks ago, with a huge suitcase.

Then, a man named Ramon, a loan shark, showed up looking for Jessica. “She owes me a lot of money,” he said. “She swore she’d pay me back in two weeks.”

That night, a memory surfaced in my mind. Years ago, Daniel had proudly shown me a life insurance policy he’d bought. “If anything happens to me,” he’d said, “Jessica and Matthew will have nothing to worry about.” The sole beneficiary was Jessica. I realized with horror that he probably never changed it.

I called the detective immediately. They searched Daniel’s study and found the policy. My feeling was right. Jessica’s name was still there. With Daniel declared dead in an accident, she would receive all the money. It was the motive.

A few days later, the police found an abandoned frozen goods warehouse used by the loan shark gang. That night, the phone rang once more.

“Mrs. Helen,” the officer’s voice was halting. “We found a body… a man hidden in the frozen goods warehouse. We suspect it’s Mr. Daniel.”

My world fell apart.

The next morning, I went to the morgue. A frigid air hit my face. The white sheet was slowly pulled back, and I saw him. It was pale, it was changed, but it was my son. I fell to my knees, only able to say two words: “My son.”

The medical examiner confirmed he died from a blow to the head on the night of the storm. The police found a blanket stained with Daniel’s blood and Jessica’s jacket in the truck. The man who was with her confessed, leading the police to an abandoned house where Jessica was hiding. They caught her in a small copy shop, trying to forge documents to flee the city.

***

The trial was a blur of pain. I sat in the front row, holding Matthew’s hand. The prosecutor played the recording of Matthew’s statement, his small, trembling voice filling the courtroom. I saw Jessica in the defendant’s box. At first, she was calm, but as the evidence mounted—the policy, the photos, the DNA—she began to tremble.

“I didn’t mean to kill him!” she finally shouted. “I just wanted my money!”

The prosecutor’s voice was cold. “If you only wanted money, why did you hide the body?”

Jessica was sentenced to life in prison without parole. Her accomplice received 20 years. When the sentence was read, I broke down crying, hugging Matthew with all my strength. My tears were for the pain of losing Daniel, and for the relief that justice had finally been served.

“It’s over, my boy,” I whispered. “Your dad can finally rest in peace.”

A few weeks later, I closed up Daniel’s house for good. I couldn’t go back to a place haunted by so many painful memories. I took Matthew to live with me in my small town. I enrolled him in therapy, hoping the wounds in his heart would slowly heal.

Every night, I sit by his side and tell him stories about his dad, about how much he was loved. Tonight, as he sleeps, I look up at the sky and whisper, “My son, I promise you, I will raise and protect Matthew for you. Justice has been served.”

Tears roll down my cheeks, but I feel a small bit of peace, as if Daniel is somewhere, smiling down at me. I hug my grandson, knowing that although the pain of losing my son will never go away, I still have him. And I will spend the rest of my life taking care of him, just as Daniel would have wanted.