My Daughter Stopped Answering Her Phone, So I Decided to Visit. The Sight of Her Nails Left Me Speechless with Horror

It had been exactly seven days since I last heard from Amy. Our routine was unbreakable; every other day, without fail, my phone would light up with her name. But suddenly, it stopped. Amy had moved to a quaint, rural area with her husband, Nicholas, a year ago, following their wedding. The distance made our phone calls an essential lifeline, a way to bridge the miles between us. But now, that lifeline had gone ominously silent.

At first, I attributed the silence to the possible busyness of their lives. Maybe they were caught up in the romance of rural living, or perhaps Nicholas had taken Amy on a surprise trip. But as the days ticked by, a gnawing worry took root in my heart. I decided to take matters into my own hands. I needed to see Amy with my own eyes to quell the growing dread.

The drive to their house was longer than I remembered, each mile stretching with my anxiety. When I finally arrived, the sight of their cozy home, nestled among towering trees, offered no comfort. It looked deserted, a stark contrast to the vibrant home I remembered. My heart pounded as I approached the front door, the silence of the area enveloping me like a thick fog.

I knocked, once, twice, then a third time, each knock louder, more desperate. No answer. The door was unlocked, a detail that sent a shiver down my spine. “Amy?” I called out as I stepped inside, my voice echoing in the empty space. The house was in disarray, a stark departure from Amy’s usual meticulousness. A cold fear gripped me as I moved from room to room, calling out for my daughter and her husband, receiving only silence in return.

Then, I saw it. In the dim light of their bedroom, Amy’s hand was visible from behind the bed, her fingers splayed out in a way that looked unnatural. My breath caught in my throat as I rushed to her side, only to freeze in horror at the sight before me.

Amy lay on the floor, lifeless, her once vibrant eyes now dull and staring at nothing. But it was her nails that caught my attention, painted in a deep, dark red, almost black. Not polish, I realized with a nauseating jolt, but dried blood. Scratches covered her arms and face, evidence of a desperate struggle. Nicholas was nowhere to be found, and a quick, frantic search of the house revealed no sign of him.

The police arrived within minutes of my call, their questions a blur as I struggled to comprehend the reality that my daughter was gone. The investigation revealed the grim truth; Nicholas had vanished, leaving behind a trail of debts, lies, and now, a brutal crime. Amy had discovered his secrets, leading to a confrontation that ended in tragedy.

The days turned into weeks, then months, but Nicholas was never found. The silence that had once filled me with worry now echoed with the loss of my daughter, a constant reminder of the day I decided to visit, only to discover a horror beyond my worst fears.

The memory of Amy’s nails, that horrifying sight, haunts me to this day, a stark symbol of the violence that took her from me. The questions linger, the answers forever out of reach, leaving a void filled only with grief and the haunting silence of unanswered calls.