“Daddy’s Not Sleeping”
The gray sky hung low over Fairview Cemetery as the sound of bagpipes drifted through the air.
Firefighters stood in solemn rows, their badges glinting faintly as the coffin of Daniel Hayes—fallen in the line of duty—was lowered to rest.
Grace Hayes clutched the small hand of her son, Eli. He was only three—too young to understand death, too young to grasp that his father wasn’t coming home.
When they approached the coffin, Grace whispered, “Say goodbye, sweetheart.”
But Eli froze. His blue eyes locked on the polished wood. Then he pointed.
“Daddy’s not sleeping,” he said quietly. “He’s calling me.”
The crowd stirred. Someone murmured, “Poor kid.”
Grace forced a smile, her heart cracking. “He’s resting, baby.”
Eli shook his head. “No. He says, ‘Find me.’ Not this Daddy. The real one.”
The words sent a chill through Grace. That night, she tried to dismiss it—just a child’s confusion. But Eli woke screaming again and again:
“Daddy’s in the dark! Daddy’s stuck!”
Desperate, Grace took him to a therapist. But even the professional seemed uneasy.
“He doesn’t sound confused,” the therapist said softly. “He sounds… certain.”
Days later, Grace found Eli in Daniel’s office, pointing at a locked drawer.
“Daddy said you’ll find the key behind the picture.”
Her pulse quickened. Behind their wedding photo, taped to the back, was a tiny key.
Inside the drawer, Grace found notebooks, documents, and a USB drive.
On the first page of the top notebook were the words that made her blood run cold:
“If anything happens to me, and this falls into the wrong hands, destroy everything. They’ll come for you next.”
Grace’s hands trembled. Eli had been right—something was terribly wrong.
That night, as rain pattered softly against the window, Grace opened the notebooks. Inside, Daniel had written about illegal shipments, bribed inspectors, and fire code violations tied to the very warehouse where he’d died.
“They’re moving stolen electronics,” one note read.
“Some of the guys might be helping them.”
Grace’s heart pounded. Her husband hadn’t just died in a fire—he’d uncovered something dangerous.
She stared at the final lines of his handwriting, shaky and rushed:
“They know I’m onto them. If I don’t make it, Grace—find this and protect Eli.”
And with that, the whispers of a little boy at a funeral began to sound a lot like a warning.