She Was Missing for 12 Days… Until My Phone Rang From Her Number part 1

The first day Nancy Guthrie disappeared, the town treated it like a bad headline.

A woman gone from her porch in the middle of the night.

No screams.

No witnesses.

Just silence.

By day three, her face was everywhere—flyers taped to lampposts, her name whispered in grocery aisles, her picture pinned behind the police station’s front desk like a prayer.

By day twelve, people stopped whispering.

They started assuming.

That’s what towns do when answers don’t arrive fast enough.

They bury hope early.

I didn’t know Nancy personally.

Not really.

She lived three streets away, the kind of neighbor you waved at but never spoke to.

Still, something about her disappearance crawled under my skin.

Maybe it was the blood they found on her porch.

Maybe it was how her husband sat on the evening news, eyes empty, repeating the same sentence:

“Please. If anyone knows anything…”

Or maybe it was the fact that the last time anyone saw her, she was holding her phone.

That detail stayed with me.

Phones don’t leave people’s hands anymore.

Not even when they vanish.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The rain tapped gently against my window, soft and persistent, like someone trying not to be noticed.

I lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about Nancy’s porch.

Thinking about her front steps.

Thinking about the moment she must’ve realized something was wrong.

Then my phone buzzed.

At first, I thought it was the low-battery warning.

But then it buzzed again.

A call.

I rolled over, squinting at the screen.

And my stomach dropped so fast it felt like falling.

Nancy Guthrie.

Her name glowed across my phone like a ghost.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

This had to be some mistake.

A glitch.

A scam.

A cruel coincidence.

My thumb hovered over the answer button.

The rational part of my brain screamed not to.

But curiosity is louder when the world is quiet.

I answered.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Just faint static.

I swallowed.

“Nancy?”

A sound came through then.

Not a voice.

Not words.

Just… breathing.

Slow.

Unsteady.

Like someone holding their lungs together.

My heart pounded.

“Nancy, is that you? Are you okay? Where are you?”

The breathing stopped.

Then a whisper.

So soft I almost missed it.

“Don’t…”

The call cut out.

I stared at the screen, my hand trembling.

I tried calling back immediately.

Straight to voicemail.

I sat up, suddenly wide awake, adrenaline rushing hot through my veins.

Was it real?

Could she be alive?

I didn’t think.

I just grabbed my jacket, my keys, and drove.

I don’t know what I expected to do.

I wasn’t a detective.

I wasn’t a hero.

I was just someone who answered a call that shouldn’t exist.

The police station was lit up, the night shift officer barely looking up until I slammed my phone on the counter.

“She called me,” I said.

His face changed.

“What?”

“Nancy Guthrie. Her number. She called me.”

He stared like I’d spoken another language.

Then, slowly, he asked, “Do you still have the call log?”

I nodded, showing him the screen.

His jaw tightened.

Within minutes, the station was buzzing.

Phones ringing.

Officers moving.

Someone took my statement.

Someone else ran the number through their system.

And then, an older detective stepped forward.

His eyes were tired.

But sharp.

He looked at me and said quietly:

“That’s impossible.”

I frowned. “What do you mean impossible? I answered it.”

He leaned closer.

“Nancy’s phone was found.”

My blood turned cold.

“Found where?”

He hesitated.

Then said the words that made my skin crawl.

“On her porch.”

I stared.

“No… that can’t be—”

He continued.

“Battery dead. Cracked screen. It hasn’t been powered on since the night she disappeared.”

My mouth went dry.

“But I—”

The detective exhaled.

“We traced the call.”

My heart hammered.

“Where did it come from?”

His voice lowered.

“From inside her house.”

The room felt like it tilted.

I whispered, “But they searched her house.”

He nodded slowly.

“Twice.”

My phone buzzed again.

Every head snapped toward it.

I looked down.

The screen lit up.

Nancy Guthrie.

This time, there was no hesitation.

The detective answered, putting it on speaker.

Static.

Breathing.

Then—

A clearer voice.

Not weak.

Not frightened.

Almost calm.

“Open the door,” Nancy whispered.

The detective’s face went pale.

“Which door?” he demanded.

The voice smiled through the speaker.

“My door.”

Then the line went dead.

And somewhere deep in the station…

A door creaked open.