The Weekday One Hundred

The house phone would not stop. Every five minutes. Without fail.

On the other end? An old man with a voice like sandpaper.

“Look for me,” he’d whisper over and over until she slammed the receiver down.

She tried to call the parents who hired her. No answer. Same with her own mom and dad.

She hovered next to the crib, her gaze darting between the newborn and the bedroom window. She prayed it was only a sick prank by some bored teenagers.

Then the window fogged from the outside. A palm print blossomed on the glass.

She found him.