Last night I got a call from my oldest son. I had left my cellphone in the living room while me and my wife were cooking dinner and our younger son, Eric, comes in with my phone to his ear. I asked him who was on the phone. He said to me, “Dad, Dad, it’s David.”
I shuttered at the sound of my older son’s name. I told Eric that was impossible. David had been missing for 6 years. I heard my wife drop the pan she was holding, vegetables and pork scattering all over the floor. Eric handed me my phone and I raised it to my ear.
“David?” I ask.
A crackling, mocking voice answered, “Hello, Dad. Miss me? It’s been so long. You should come get me, it’s very cold back here.”
Without hesitation, I hung up and threw my phone across the room. This couldn’t be happening, no, no, it was not happening. My wife knew why I was acting like this. Why I was so scared.
Last night I got a call from my oldest son, but David is dead. He died 6 years ago, and I should know.
I’m the one who buried his body under the back porch.
