Save Me From Him
When my 16-year-old son, Jake, asked to spend the summer at my mother’s house, I was stunned. He’d never shown interest in visiting her before, let alone volunteering to go alone.
Mom was stubborn—she refused to live with us or move into assisted care. She had a caregiver I paid for, and that was the only reason I agreed when Jake insisted. “You can even give the caregiver a break, Mom,” he said, flashing a rare, mature smile.
I thought, *Maybe he’s finally becoming responsible?*
The first week went smoothly. He was polite on the phone, even sweet, but every time I asked to talk to my mother, he had an excuse. “She’s asleep.” “She’s in the bath.” “She’s resting.”
It felt off.
Then came the call.
It was from Jake’s number, but when I answered, it wasn’t his voice.
It was my mother’s—weak, trembling. “Please… save me from him!”
The line went dead.
My heart nearly stopped.
I called back—nothing. I tried again and again, but the calls went straight to voicemail.
I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my keys and sped the entire two-hour drive to my mother’s small town. By the time I pulled up to her house, my hands were shaking.
The porch light was off. The yard was overgrown. The house looked *different*, almost… abandoned.
I burst through the door.
The living room was in shambles—furniture pushed against the walls, curtains ripped down. The air smelled musty, stale, like no one had been airing the place out.
And then I saw her.
My mother—frail, terrified, sitting in a chair in the corner. Her eyes flickered toward me, but she didn’t speak.
And Jake?
He stood behind her.
Smiling.
But it wasn’t his usual, goofy grin. It was something else. Something *cold*.
“Mom,” I whispered, my voice barely holding steady. “What’s going on?”
Jake tilted his head. “Grandma was going to ruin everything. But now that you’re here…” He took a step closer. “Maybe I should deal with you, too.”
A chill ran down my spine.