The darkness clung to Jim's room like a living entity—an unwanted guest refusing to leave.
He was lying on his back,staring at the ceiling, when he felt something cold and black drip onto his cheek.
He sat up abruptly.
Thick, oily drops were falling one after another... dripping from the ceiling—from the children's room upstairs.
His heartbeat began to stutter.
He stood slowly,each step on the stairs as if his legs were moving through fog.
He pushed Jack and Emily's door open.
The scene was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Jack was asleep, curled up in his blanket.
Emily was clutching her stuffed rabbit.
Their breaths rose and fell like a quiet lullaby.
Jim smiled—a weak, desperate smile, the smile of a father begging for reassurance.
He closed the door.
But before it clicked shut, something flashed in the darkness.
A shadow.
Tall.
Thin.
Human-like—but stripped of all human features.
Jim froze in place.
He pushed the door open again with a trembling hand.
The shadow was standing between the two beds like a judge preparing to pass sentence.
Slowly,it raised its hands—the left hand over Jack... the right hand over Emily.
A ritual.
A judgment.
A promise of loss.
Jim screamed—an instinctual, animalistic cry.
"No!"
His chest heaved—and then the darkness shattered.
"Jim! Jim, wake up!"
Elizabeth shook him violently.
He gasped awake, drenched in cold sweat.
The shadow was gone.
The children were safe.
The house was silent.
Just a dream.
But a dream that felt like a prophecy.
///
Jim was sick all day.
He vomited twice.
He trembled.
He slept in short,fitful bursts next to the old cordless phone.
Every time he woke,he tried calling Em again—despair tightening around him like a noose.
By midnight, his body had regained enough strength to stand.
The air was utterly still when a faint,trembling static emitted from the phone.
Jim snatched it up immediately.
"Em? Are you there...?"
A tired, grumbling voice replied:
"What do you want now? Seriously, you're starting to make me want to smash this stupid thing."
Jim's voice broke.
But he didn't get angry.
Not this time.
"I'm from the past," he said quietly.
Em snorted in disbelief.
"What?Have you been drinking? Are you insane?"
Jim closed his eyes.
He spoke with the tone of a man who had stopped caring how his voice sounded:
"My name is Jim. Detective. London. I'm not joking. Just look me up. Search. I'll wait."
There was a long silence.
Then Em said:
"...Okay.I'll check. But if you're messing with me, I swear—"
The call ended.
Twenty minutes of agony passed.
Then Em's voice returned—sharper, breathing quickly:
"...I found you."
Jim's spine stiffened.
"Found... me?"
"The name. The rank. A man with two kids. A wife."
Em hesitated.
"But that doesn't prove anything.Anyone can read old files."
Jim took a deep breath.
"Tell me how to prove it."
Rustling on the line.
Then Em said:
"Alright. We'll test your claim. Tomorrow, go to some soft, fresh concrete—anywhere new—and carve your name and the year. Tell me the exact location. In 2010, I'll go look for it."
Jim whispered:
"Alright then, I'll write the future."
---
The next morning, Jim found some fresh concrete near a bus depot.
He carved his name with a nail:JIM SMITH – 1990
Then he left.
Jim discovered afterward that he couldn't speak to Em until after exactly 12:00. He told him the exact location.
Hours passed in the meantime.
Then Em called.
His voice was trembling with something between astonishment and horror:
"...I found it."
Jim's knees weakened.
Em continued:
"I had to move an old car that had been parked there for years. Your carving was under the moss and rust. It looked like it had been there forever. You were telling the truth..."
Jim exhaled—a long, shaky, disbelieving sigh.
Em lowered his voice:
"This is insane. Completely insane."
Jim said quietly:
"Now it's your turn to prove you're from the future."
"Alright," Em replied.
"But before that...I want to know something. Why are you calling me? Why do you keep insisting?"
Jim leaned forward, his eyes dull from lack of sleep.
"You know about the serial killings. The ones where the victims' fingernails are removed."
Em's tone changed instantly—became cold, almost excited:
"Yes.The Hell's Angel murders."
Jim whispered:
"The first murder happened two days ago in my time. We can stop them. So when is the second murder? And how many victims will there be?"
"Nine," Em said without hesitation.
"The next one happens in three days."
Jim felt a spark of hope.
But that spark died the moment Em added:
"...But first, save someone for me. It's the only way to prove yourself."
Jim stiffened.
"Who?"
"My mom," said Em.
"Tomorrow 7th 1990.Watson District, 7th Street, House 40. She dies in a fire while my dad and I are watching a football match."
Jim shook his head in disbelief.
"You're asking me to risk everything for one person. We're talking about nine victims."
Em shot back:
"When my mom died,no one helped her! People saw and did nothing! The world is selfish. So that's my condition. Take it or leave it."
Jim gripped the phone.
"...Fine.Give me the address again."
"Watson District. 7th Street. House 40."
Silence.
Jim said:
"Tomorrow,I'll try to change your future."
He was about to hang up when Em said, trembling:
"Wait... there's something else."
Jim stiffened.
"What is it?"
A pause.
A breath.
Then Em whispered:
"In a month—in your time—you die. By suicide. Inside a prison cell."
The phone slipped from Jim's hand.
Everything vanished from his chest;he clutched his nearly stopping heart.
His vision blurred.
Em's voice echoed faintly from the floor:
"Jim? Jim! Answer me!"
Jim picked up the phone slowly—as if it weighed a hundred kilos.
He whispered:
"I'm okay.
Tomorrow...I change your mother's fate.
And maybe—just maybe—I change my own too."