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My Husband Always Locked His Phone — Until the Day I Answered a Call and Heard My Own Voice Crying for Help
Episode 1
Written By Jerry Smith.
Sandra lived a dream life—or so it appeared. Her husband, Richard, was everything a woman could wish for: tall, confident, intelligent, and above all, kind. He spoiled her with weekend trips, spontaneous gifts, and long nights of wine and deep conversations. Their love story felt like a fairytale, wrapped in golden ribbons of joy. But like all fairytales, there was one dark rule.
“Never touch my phone, Sandra. Ever.”
Richard had said it with a smile on their honeymoon in Mauritius, like it was a playful quirk. At the time, Sandra laughed. “Okay, Mr. Secret Agent. Your phone’s off-limits. Got it.”
But as the months passed, that rule began to weigh heavily on her mind. Why so serious about a phone?
It wasn’t just that he protected it. Richard obsessed over it.
He took it everywhere—even to the bathroom. Sandra once joked, “Do you want to marry your phone instead of me?” Richard just kissed her forehead and changed the subject.
Every night, he tucked the phone under his pillow like a child hiding candy. Even when asleep, his hand always seemed to rest just beside it.
One night, Sandra asked, “Why don’t you trust me with your phone? You know everything about me.”
He looked at her with those intense eyes, the ones that made her knees go weak. “It’s not about trust, love. Some things are better untouched. For your own peace of mind.”
That answer stuck in her like a splinter.
She tried to forget about it, until the odd behavior began.
Richard would lock the bathroom door when on calls. His tone would shift—gentle and smooth with her, but sharp and secretive when speaking in private.
Sometimes, Sandra would catch him watching her—not lovingly, but like he was studying her. As though she were a subject in a science experiment.
She once asked, half-joking, “Are you analyzing me or something?”
He smiled. “I just love looking at you.”
But something in that smile chilled her.
One rainy morning, Richard was running late for a business meeting. His phone was plugged into the wall, charging, forgotten in his rush.
Sandra sat on the bed, staring at it. The room was silent except for the hum of the rain outside. Her heart began to race.
She walked over to the device. It glowed gently. So harmless.
Just as her fingers reached for it, the phone rang.
She froze.
The name on the screen was unknown—just a string of numbers. No country code. No contact picture.
With trembling hands, she picked it up and pressed “Answer.”
At first, there was silence.
Then, her own voice came through. Sobbing. Panicked. “Please! Let me out! Why are you doing this to me?”
Sandra’s heart stopped.
She dropped the phone as if it had burned her. It landed face down on the carpet, screen still glowing.
That voice—her voice—had been in pain. Terrified. But… she had never said those words before. Not once in her life.
Hands shaking, she redialed the number. It didn’t connect.
She tried again. Still nothing.
The air around her felt heavier, like the walls were listening.
When Richard came back that evening, she said nothing. She smiled. She laughed at his jokes. She asked about his meeting.
But inside her, something had shifted. Something broke.
That night, after he fell asleep, Sandra tiptoed downstairs to his study. She brought her laptop and the spare USB cable she had hidden weeks ago.
She knew his phone’s password. He thought she didn’t, but she had seen it once—reflected on the microwave door. 2971.
With a deep breath, she unlocked the phone and connected it.
Most of the files were standard—emails, business apps, music playlists.
Then she saw it. A folder named “DO NOT OPEN.”
It was hidden deep inside system folders.
Her stomach twisted.
She clicked it.
Inside were dozens of video files. No thumbnails. Just dates.
She opened the one with the most recent timestamp.
The screen lit up.
Sandra stared in disbelief.
There she was—her own face—crying, her mascara smudged, hair messy. She was locked in a small room. No windows. Only a dim light flickering overhead.
“Please,” the Sandra on screen sobbed, banging on the door. “Please let me out. I’m sorry.”
The real Sandra covered her mouth, tears filling her eyes.
That… that couldn’t be her. She had never been locked anywhere. Never screamed like that.
But it was her face. Her voice.
She opened another video.
Same room. Same horror. But this time, the Sandra on screen was curled in the corner, muttering something over and over.
Sandra leaned in.
“He made me forget… He made me forget who I am…”
The laptop’s fan whirred loudly, and for a second, the video flickered.
The woman on the screen looked up—and Sandra gasped.
That wasn’t her. Not exactly.
Same face. Same body. But the eyes… they were emptier. Tired. Lost.
She was staring at a copy of herself.
Sandra’s head spun.
What was happening?
She whispered, “What… is this?”
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked behind her.
The air in the study turned cold.
She turned slowly.
Richard stood in the doorway, eyes unreadable, mouth curved in a calm, dangerous smile.
“Found something… interesting?” he asked softly.
The screen behind her paused on the image of the second Sandra, eyes wide in terror.
Sandra stood up slowly, her legs weak.
“I—what is this, Richard?”
He didn’t answer. He took a step forward.
And the screen flickered again—this time showing two Sandras, one crying, the other whispering, both trapped.
Sandra backed up, clutching her laptop.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she said, voice cracking. “Tell me the truth.”
Richard’s voice was low and calm. “You weren’t supposed to remember…”
The screen behind her glitched—and a final whisper came through: “He’s about to do it… again…”
The lights flickered.
To Be Continued…
Who do you think the second Sandra is? A twin, a clone… or something else?
What do you think Richard meant by “You weren’t supposed to remember”?
Would you have answered the phone? Or left it alone?
What would you do if you saw a video of yourself in a place you’ve never been?
Drop your thoughts in the comments. Let’s talk. This story is just getting started.
