A boy called the police and said that his parents were doing something in the room. The officers decided to check — and discovered something horrifying.
The call to the police station ended as abruptly as it had begun.
“Help, my parents, they—” The boy’s voice barely got out before a man’s voice came through the receiver:
“Who are you talking to? Give me the phone!”
And then silence.
The officer on duty exchanged a glance with his partner. According to protocol, they were obliged to check the situation, even if the call was accidental. But something in the child’s tone — restrained fear, a quiver in his voice — made them more alert than usual.
The car slowly approached a two-story house in a quiet neighborhood. From the outside, everything looked perfect: neat lawn, flower beds, locked door. But inside, there was an eerie silence.
The officers knocked.
A few seconds — nothing. Then the door opened, and a boy of about seven appeared in the doorway. Dark hair, clean clothes, a serious gaze like that of an adult.
“Were you the one who called us?” the officer asked gently.
The boy nodded, stepped aside to let them in, and said quietly:
“My parents… they’re there.” He pointed to the half-open door at the end of the hallway.
“What happened? Are your mom and dad okay?” the uniformed officer asked.
But the boy didn’t answer. He just stood there pressed against the wall, eyes fixed on the door.
The male officer approached the room first. His partner stayed slightly behind, next to the child. He pushed the door open and peered inside — and his heart almost stopped at what he saw. 
Two adults lay side by side on the floor, their faces pale and motionless. For a split second, the officer thought they were dead — until he noticed the faint rise and fall of their chests.
Beside them was a small, overturned bottle, its label unreadable, and a heavy, damp smell in the air. The curtains were drawn tightly, the room dim, like the life had been drained from it.
“Call an ambulance. Now!” he barked to his partner.
The female officer grabbed her radio, but her eyes darted to the boy. “What happened here? Did they take something?”
The boy hesitated, then whispered, “They said… we’d all go to sleep forever. They told me to drink too, but I ran and called you.”
A cold chill ran down the officer’s spine. This wasn’t just an accident — it was a planned tragedy.
Paramedics arrived minutes later and rushed the unconscious parents to the hospital. The boy sat silently on the couch, hugging his knees, while the officers tried to reach a relative.
When asked if there was anyone he trusted, his eyes finally met the officer’s, dark and unreadable. “No,” he said softly. “They were all I had. And now… I don’t know if I want them back.”
The weight of his words settled in the room like a stone. Whatever had happened behind that closed door would haunt him — and them — for the rest of their lives.
Two Weeks Later
The parents had survived, though barely. Doctors confirmed they had ingested a dangerous mixture of alcohol and crushed pills. Officially, it was labeled a joint suicide attempt.
But something about the boy lingered in the officers’ minds. His calmness. His unnervingly steady voice. His refusal to visit the hospital.
One afternoon, Officer Ramirez, the one who had first spoken to him, stopped by the foster home where he’d been placed. The boy was sitting at a small table, drawing. When Ramirez approached, he slid the paper toward him.
It was a picture of a house — his house. Two stick figures lay flat inside a room, and a smaller figure stood outside, holding something that looked suspiciously like a phone.
“You drew this from the night we met, huh?” Ramirez asked.
The boy tilted his head. “Not exactly. This is from before you came.”
Ramirez frowned. “Before?”
The boy’s voice was quiet, almost playful. “I waited. I had to make sure they drank it all first.”
A chill ran up Ramirez’s spine. “Wait… you made them drink it?”
The boy smiled faintly, eyes locked on the officer’s. “They always told me they wished I was never born. So I gave them a reason to leave.”
Ramirez’s mouth went dry. “And what would’ve happened if we hadn’t arrived?”
The boy shrugged, his tone disturbingly casual. “Then they’d be gone. And I’d finally be free.”
For the first time since that night, the officer realized — the call hadn’t been a desperate plea for help. It had been a calculated confession, wrapped in the voice of a child.
And he wasn’t sure which was more horrifying — what the parents had done, or what the boy was capable of.
Three Months Later
The boy had been placed with the Harrisons, a kind middle-aged couple who couldn’t have children of their own. They doted on him — new clothes, warm meals, bedtime stories.
For a while, everything seemed perfect.
Until the accidents started.
First, Mrs. Harrison slipped on the stairs. She swore she had just mopped the day before, yet somehow the step was wet — slick like it had been deliberately poured on.
Then, Mr. Harrison’s car “accidentally” rolled out of the driveway while he was checking under the hood. The parking brake, which he always set, had somehow been released.
The neighbors noticed too. “Your boy’s… quiet,” one woman commented. “Always just standing there, watching.”
One rainy afternoon, Mrs. Harrison was baking cookies when the boy padded into the kitchen. He climbed onto a chair, leaned his elbows on the counter, and smiled.
“Do you like it here, sweetheart?” she asked.
“I like it,” he said softly. “But it’s not forever.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
The boy tilted his head, his dark eyes unblinking. “People don’t stay forever. Sometimes… they leave early. Like my parents.”
Mrs. Harrison’s stomach tightened. “That’s… a sad thing to say.”
The boy smiled wider. “Not if you make it happen.”
Lightning flashed outside, and for a moment, she thought she saw something in his gaze — not the innocence of a child, but the quiet patience of someone who could wait years to get what he wanted.
The oven timer dinged, startling her. When she turned back, the boy had already left the room.
And on the floor by the door, she noticed something strange — a bottle of cleaner, lying on its side, slowly leaking onto the tile.
