Last Messages

I never thought a normal conversation with my mom would become the closest thing to a survival log I'd ever write.

It started with a simple text saying, "I love you mom." A few seconds later, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. At first, I tried convincing myself it was nothing, maybe a noise from a neighbor or the house settling, but the footsteps kept getting closer. I grabbed my phone, locked myself away, and started sending messages because I was too scared to make a phone call. I could hear movement outside my room, and I was almost certain someone was standing just on the other side of the door.

I hid inside my closet and kept texting her updates. I told her I thought he was outside my room. Then I heard sirens in the distance, but they were too far away for me to know if they were coming for me. Every second felt like an hour. I tried not to move, not to breathe too loudly, just hoping whoever was inside hadn't heard me. Then suddenly I heard something downstairs. Doors opening. Voices. Movement. The police were already inside the house.

When the officers finally found me, they told me I was safe. That's when I learned why they were there. The person they were looking for wasn't just a random intruder. He was an escaped violent criminal who had been breaking into homes throughout the area. Police had been tracking him after multiple reports, and my house was one of the places he had entered. Later that night, it was all over the news.

I sent my mom one final message telling her I was okay and that they had caught him. I promised I would keep my doors locked and be more careful. But what still haunts me is how close it came. I wasn't chasing a mystery or looking for trouble. I was just sitting at home, texting my mom, while someone dangerous was quietly moving through my house. The last thing I heard before everything changed was a pair of footsteps coming toward my door.