Last Violent Call

I was a writer. I rented a place in the countryside to seek inspiration. The villagers said it was a haunted house. Twenty years ago, a mad woman murdered her daughter by piercing a needle into her skull! I did not believe it, but I got a call from a little girl that night. She said it was 2002, and her mother was trying to kill her!

"Pick up…. pick up… please" When the call did not get through, I burst into tears. The killer was now banging the door violently. “Inspector Kenneth speaking” Uncle Ken’s voice came through and right at the same the killer made a whole in the door by his continuous banging. "Uncle Ken, he's here, he is going to kill me…." I stated this in a panicked, horrified tone. “Zara, darling, we were going to have some fun why did you called the police?” he said in a cold tone bringing out his silvery knife. A shudder rushed down the spine. However, I maintained my composure. "You are over now," I said, trying to mask my terror. "Tsk, tsk, tsk, not yet…." He answered and raced towards me. What happens next???

My son spiked a sudden high fever, scorching like a flame under my touch. I frantically dialed 911 for help, but the dispatcher on the line kept repeating questions, dragging it out. By the time the ambulance siren finally wailed in the distance, my son had already grown cold and still in my arms. Less than a year later, my husband and I split up amid endless grief and finger-pointing. I dragged on like an empty shell until one day I got an e-invite to his wedding. The moment I clicked the voice message, my blood ran cold. The bride's voice echoed exactly like that sluggish dispatcher from back then. In a breakdown, I bolted out of the house and got caught in the path of a speeding subway train, plunging me into darkness. When I opened my eyes again, my son's cries pierced the air from the next room, his forehead blazing hot against my palm. My husband thrust the phone toward me. "Quick, call 911! I'll grab a cold compress." My hands trembled as I dialed, and a chillingly familiar voice answered, "Hello, 911 emergency services."

The buzzing of my phone in the middle of the night jolted me awake. On the other end of the line came a voice I could never forget. It was my daughter! However, she died three years ago!

Emma Hart thought she led an ordinary life—until a single mysterious message changes everything. When her phone flashes a countdown and a distorted voice warns her not to look outside, Emma realizes she’s caught in a deadly game she doesn’t understand. Shadows move faster than any human, storms rage with unnatural fury, and the city she calls home becomes a maze of fear and secrets. With only twelve minutes to act, Emma must uncover who—or what—is hunting her, why she was chosen, and how to survive when time itself seems to be against her. Racing against a relentless enemy, she discovers hidden powers, buried truths, and the shocking revelation that the world is far more dangerous than anyone could imagine. The Last Signal is a pulse-pounding thriller that blends suspense, supernatural mystery, and heart-stopping tension, asking one question: when the clock is ticking, who can you trust—and who is already watching from the shadows?

In the VIP lounge of an underground casino, Maeve, the Falcone family's princess, had been plied with too much hard liquor. Fueled by alcohol, someone goaded her into revealing the most shameless thing she'd ever done to win over the Don. She swirled her glass, pointed at me dealing cards behind the table, and threw her head back with a laugh. "Seven years ago, when Declan was in a coma after a shootout, I took his private phone. And I deleted the distress message that bitch sent him. Every last trace of it. Then I replied in his name: You're a burden. Go die." "You'll never guess what happened next. That idiot stood outside the safe house all night in a downpour, like a stray dog. I almost died laughing…" The room erupted in crude laughter. Only the man enthroned at the head of the table remained silent. The crystal whiskey glass in his hand shattered with a sharp crack. Blood mixed with the amber liquor, trickling over the veins on the back of his hand before dripping onto the carpet. His murderous, bloodshot eyes were locked on me. I calmly dealt the last hole card in front of him and offered a clean, white silk handkerchief. "Don Declan, you should wipe your hand. Blood on the felt is bad luck." After all, some stains never wash out.