Wrong Number

Every year millions of people head into the wilderness searching for peace, beauty, and adventure. But hidden in those same scenic landscapes are stories of violence, survival, and lives cut short. I'm Dilya DeAmbra, and on my podcast, Park Predators, I uncover the true crimes that happened in the most amazing places on Earth. Listen to Park Predators wherever you get your podcasts. The End The End Hi, listeners. I have a story I want to tell you. There was this doctor over at St. Agri's who would kill his patients. Oh, yes, it was, Madness. Aren't you afraid the light take away getting? I'm sorry, I didn't listen to you. That Trello, I'm a moron. I snapped. Totally lost him. He had no idea what was on those tapes. It was like a song. All he had the outcast. So gather around, gather around, and listen. Close. The text woke me in the middle of the night. I remembered the rattle, the vibration, and reaching out of habit. I robbed my eyes, annoyed, the who and why stumbling in my brain as I fought to sit up. I unlocked my phone. The light was blinding, and through squinting eyes, I narrowed them on the most important detail of the screen. The time. It was just after two in the morning. Before I could even groan at how early it was, I was transfixed on the name bubbled at the top. Jen, we had broken up two years ago, back at uni. I hadn't heard from her since. Had she been drinking? Was she thinking of getting back together? It was a pleasant surprise, sure. But as soon as I started reading the message, all of my drowsy excitement died like a kite with no wind. Her message was short, only a few words, but they seemed... off. It read plainly. Do you ever wonder what's under your skin? I read the message again, then a third time. Not only was it out of pocket, it was out of character. It didn't seem like something Jen would say. With a sigh, I thumbed the keys and responded in the only way I knew how. What? I stared into the screen, scratching my head, and still frowning at the time. After two years of not talking, it was a little late for a prank. It took a moment, but she started texting back. The little dot, dot, dots were buffering as she worked up a reply. The next message made even less sense, but it gave me the chills. My bones want to escape. Do you think they can make it on their own? Do you think they would know where to go? What the... I thought to myself. Maybe she was at a party and had drank too much. Probably texted me on accident. Maybe it was a bad trip? I texted back this time, swinging my feet over the bed and using both thumbs. Jen? Is everything all right? Have you been drinking or something? Sitting in the glow of my dark bedroom, I awaited a reply that would, hopefully, clear things up. A response was quick. Two texts, one right after the other. This is Jen? Ha-ha, just kidding. See you around. And a thumbs-up emoji to top it off. How strange. I responded with an okay and returned my phone to the nightstand crawling back under the covers. Just kidding? It didn't make any sense. I tried to fall back asleep, but I couldn't shake the weirdness of the short interaction. The two of us had only dated briefly, and she was quirky, sure, but the whole thing felt off. I double-checked the number to make sure I wasn't confused. It was Jen's number just as I had last saved it. Maybe she was at a party and her friends dared her to text me or something. Maybe she had gotten a new number and this was just a stranger having a good laugh? Either way, it was bizarre. I didn't receive another text that night, and as I drifted off to sleep, I pushed away the thought of my bones wanting to escape. The next day, Jen texted me again. I was at the store doing my shopping for the week when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Unching over the cart, I was surprised to see her name again. I had chalked up last night to either a dare or drunken mistake. But this text seemed relatively normal, more like the Jen I used to know anyway. It read simply, Hey! I mulled it over for a while, idly chewing my lip as other shoppers passed by. Was she interested in hanging out? Or was this the start of an apology? I didn't even have to scroll to see her messages from the night before. And just seeing them hanging there served as a reminder of how odd she had been. I played it cool. What's up? Do you remember texting me last night? Is everything okay? I hid send and waited. There was nothing for a moment, and I considered putting my phone away and going about my day. But just before I could hit the lock button again, I saw her begin to type, so I lingered. Her responses came one after another, but not at all like I expected. I see a text of you. Everything is fine. I'm working on something. Seeing the plain responses made me pause. Back when we dated, Jen would usually send a paragraph with no detail spared, and it would usually take her a while. If she was just trying to break the ice again, it was an interesting way of doing it. I typed back, What are you working on? The second my message went through, she sent another. Art. Jen went to college for software engineering. She always had a cold and calculated way about her, but she was never one to spare words. I tried to rationalize the way she was writing. The simple but concise messages felt automated, and vague. It was like someone else had her phone. It felt weird texting back, like I was talking with a stranger. I asked if I could see what she was working on. When she didn't respond, I started to feel embarrassed. Too soon, I guess. I pocketed the phone and returned to my shopping. I wanted to shrug it off, but it still rubbed me the wrong way. Could it be stress? Life did have a way of pulling you into its tide. Maybe she had changed since uni. I finished my shopping and retreated to the self-check out. Scan, Bag, and paid. Enjoyed the warm sun on my skin as I crossed the parking lot. Just as I was putting the bags in my trunk, I felt a vibration again. I packed everything up, and closed the trunk. After climbing back into my car, I finally checked the message. This time, Jen sent an attachment. I waited for the image to load, and when it did, I felt that chill return. The image was a shattered mirror, like a bathroom vanity or something like it. There was a crater in the center, like someone had chucked a rock hard as they could. Glass was everywhere. The reflective shards scattered the frame and all around the photo. Through the broken glass, I could see the faint outline of someone. But not enough detail to tell who that was. A pipe wrench was laying idly in the sink. It looked real. But with her savviness and tack, Jen had a hand in digital design. It could have been a fine display of her own skills, but the level of detail was borderline life-like. I replied, wow, did you design that? Or did you actually break that mirror? I added a laughing emoji to disguise the fact I was growing incredibly nervous. As she started typing a voice in the back of my head, toyed with the idea she had possibly experienced a psychotic break. That's, or her ability to bring a picture to life was out of this world. I leaned towards the latter. More texts, one after another. Thanks. How do you know that you looking at you is really you? I didn't know how to answer that. Goose bumps crawled across my arms and I felt a cold sweat glistening on my forehead. I wiped my brow and tried to come up with an appropriate response. But the only thing I could think of was concern and a growing unease. Before I could reply, she beat me to it. Can you trust the cameras of your eyes? Is the footage real? Has it ever been? What the... I looked at the texts in disbelief and decided to do something I really hadn't planned on doing. Against my better judgment, I gave her a call. Clearing my throat nervously, I listened to the phone ring. I figured if I just asked if she was okay, I would recognize her voice, maybe get a handle on the situation and... The person you are trying to reach. On the second ring, Jen sent the call to voicemail. It didn't time out and get redirected. She had deliberately swiped my call. Sweating now, I sent her a... Is everything okay, Jen? Just wanted to see what's up. I probably could have done better. Jen was already typing. Can't talk right now. Just kidding. I felt...queasy. Something wasn't right. I rubbed my eyes before sending the next one. One specifically to try and get her undivided attention. I wanted her to know I was serious. Hey, I know this is kind of sudden and all, but... I miss you. Would it be cool if I stopped by? I'd like to see you. I swallowed hard and felt stupid. But if I could just get some kind of human interaction, I'd know whether something was up or not. We hadn't dated in a while, but I thought maybe a welfare check couldn't hurt. It's not like I was a total stranger. I chewed my nails as she typed. And when the next message popped, it sent shivers down my spine. I'm so sorry you're experiencing this. I gotta go. I'll feel around. Followed by the same thumbs up from the previous day. I tried calling again, but I went straight to voicemail. She must have shut off her phone. The series of texts stuck with me into the night. And I couldn't resist the urge to check my phone to see if she would follow up. Jen was an introvert, much like myself. I remembered her being awkward and shy, but she had never acted like this. The more I thought about it, the less these interactions made sense. She had seemed so put together back then, always focused on her work. She was an ace in every class. Did a close family member pass away? Was she going through a bad breakup? Either something was really wrong, or this was some kind of messed up, elaborate, ruse. It was getting late, so I decided first thing in the morning, I'd try to connect with some old friends and see what they knew. Or if they had received any strange messages themselves, whether it was a prank or not. However, before I would even make it to the next day, I heard from Jen again. The vibration on the end table surface pulled me from sleep. It was just after when I am. And as I felt from my phone, I had a feeling I knew who it was. Jen. Just because you don't breathe doesn't mean you're not alive. If you're not breathing, they can't feel how close you are. What the hell? I called her immediately. Either she needed help, or someone was seriously screwing with me. It barely rang before it was sent to voicemail. The person. Jen, what's going on? You're freaking me out. I texted. She started typing immediately, like she had just been staring at her screen waiting for a reply. Oh, I'm just cooking. I stared at the words dumbfounded. My thumbs typed back slowly. It's late. What are you cooking? I waited for a response. In the darkness of my bedroom, the air felt cold, and the shadows around me grew unsettling. It was windy outside, and the sound of the gust against the window made me shiver. Jen sent another attachment without a word. The sight of the picture alone, both confused and terrified me. The picture was of a stove top, with a frying pan sitting on the burner. There was nothing in it, but smoke was billowing everywhere. Below, the electric burner was red hot. No food, only scorched Teflon. The sight alone was alarming, to say the least. I called again. Again, it was manually sent to voicemail. The person. Frustrated. I texted. Pick up your phone, Jen. Are you trying to burn the house down? She typed back immediately. The responses made me sick to my stomach. Can't talk right now. Doesn't feel hot. What do you mean it doesn't feel... I started texting back, but she hit me with her signature sign off. I gotta go. See you around. Thumbs up. I sighed and laid back down. Tomorrow, I would get to the bottom of this. I spent the next day desperately trying to reconnect with people I knew at the time Jen and I were dating. Old friends, her girlfriends, mild acquaintances. Those whose numbers I didn't have I found on social media. I reached out to them all, each provoking the same awkward trip down memory lane. We dated two years ago, remember? No. She broke up with me. No, we're not back together. I'm just worried about her. No, I'm not trying to hook up with her. Are you sure you haven't seen her? Haven't seen her since uni? Yeah. Me neither. Two years ago, yeah. Look, I'm just trying to get a hold of her. No, she's been sending these weird messages. You haven't gotten any texts at all? No. No, I'm not trying to get back together. Have you seen her or not? I felt like a maniac. Nobody from around that time had heard from her recently. And those that did, whether or not they really did, wouldn't tell me anything. Whenever I mentioned the things she sent, they accused me of messing around. But those I met in person and physically showed the chat logs to said the texts were off-putting, like I was talking to a bot. The thought made me deeply uncomfortable, not knowing who was behind the wheel at the other end. I thought back to when our relationship ended, when she broke up with me. She was irritable, distant. She had been wrapped up in a project at the time, a man that seemed to consume her. I remembered being upset and confused as to why she was breaking it off. But she just pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. She just kept saying something like, you wouldn't understand. You're always unplugged. I was hurt in the moment. But over time, I just accepted it, too smart, and I was holding her back from something. I didn't know her current living situation, or if she had a roommate. I reached out to her parents on social media. Her father didn't respond, but her mother did. She asked me if we were back together before saying they hadn't heard from Jen in a while. Something about being busy with work. Exhausted and out of leads, I slumped into the couch and wondered if there was anything else I could do. I couldn't report her missing. Her texts were right here. And if anyone should pull the alarm, it should be her parents, right? Not the short-term ex-boyfriend. But through it all, I kept thinking this has to be a prank. Until my phone buzzed. The text was only five words, but it put my stomach and knots. It came from Jen. I want to see you. I stared at it for some time. This is what I wanted, right? If I saw her face to face, I'd be able to know everything was all right. Had I been misinterpreting, overreacting? I wished she would just answer her phones so I could hear her voice. I texted back. Want me to drop by? The answer was immediate. No. I started typing out a reply, but she beat me to it. When I read it, I felt myself fall into an anxious pit. I'll come to you. What do you address again? Smiley face. Something about that last touch made me sick to my stomach. I live alone. I've been renting out a small house outside of town since I graduated college. It's nice and quiet, and there isn't a neighbor for at least a mile. If she was in some sort of fragile state, she would be less embarrassed coming around, with no prying eyes and all. The more I thought about it, the less it seemed like a bad idea. I texted her. Want to meet somewhere in town? I can get you something to eat. Not like a date or anything. We can catch up. I didn't want her to worry about making some kind of scene, but the idea of having other people close by made me a little less anxious. If she was having a meltdown of some kind, I might be able to get her help, and not be alone while doing so. She didn't respond. I stared at the screen and waited, hoping for a cheery response, something close to how things used to be. I couldn't shake the feeling I was talking to a complete stranger. If I had gotten any kind of lead in my calls earlier, I would have sent the police to conduct a welfare check, but I still had no idea where she even was. Suddenly, Jen started typing. Then stopped. Then started again. After what felt like an eternity, her response made me feel bad. It was the realest text I had received since she reached out. I don't really feel like being around other people right now. Can I just come over to your place? It felt like older Jen. It still made me uneasy, but I imagined her as she was when we were together. If she was hurting, really hurting, I'd want to be there for her. Maybe she just needed a friend. Worst case scenario, I could call the police. Just the thought of it made me sick to my stomach. With a heavy sigh, I typed in my address, 1,400 West, 600 North. Her reply was instantaneous. Great. Off you soon. Thumbs up. I stared at my phone for a while before locking it, wishing I would have gotten her to meet me in town. Everything will be fine, I told myself. But as I turned on the porch light and sat in the living room, I couldn't help but feel the slow creep of dread, like I had made a mistake. I watched outside and waited, growing increasingly nervous. It was dark out and it had started to rain. Beyond the porch light, trees were swaying and casting eerie shadows. I couldn't see the robe. I stared outside as I waited phone in my pocket. I didn't want to get lost in scrolling. I wanted to stay on the lookout for when she drove by. The thought of her arriving unnoticed and unseen wasn't one I cared to keep. For 20 minutes, there was nothing. No passing cars, no headlights turning into the drive. Only sheets of rain and the slow sway of trees. I lived outside of town, but I didn't think we had lived that far apart. At the 45 minute mark, I decided I'd try to call her. Just as I pulled my phone, it lit up, a text from Jen. You're not home. Startled, I sprang off the couch and looked through the windows. I had been watching the entire time, and there wasn't a soul in sight. Nobody so much has used my driveway to turn around. I called, straight to voicemail. I was annoyed, nervous. I texted with sweaty palms. I don't see you. Did you go to the wrong house? Maybe she misread the directions. She texted again. I looked everywhere. Where are you? I texted back. Where are you? I don't see anyone here. I've been watching for you. An immediate reply. There was nobody watching here. The knot in my stomach worsened. I went to text some kind of frantic reply, but I had an idea. She wouldn't take my calls, but maybe she'd do something else. I took a deep breath and texted again. Video chat me. You don't have to say anything. Just show me where you're at so we can figure this out. For an agonizing moment, there was nothing. I was sweating now, occasionally glancing outside to make sure there wasn't anyone standing there. I was alone. Finally, my phone vibrated. A video call from Jen. Smiling face of her old contact photo filled my screen. reluctantly, I answered. When the screen changed, I noticed two things immediately. One, the camera was flipped to face away from her. And two, she had muted herself. In stunned silence, I watched as she angled the camera to show what was in front of her. She was standing in front of a house, but it wasn't mine. It was the same kind of country home I had, with a similar background of darkened trees. She was standing outside in a pouring rain and little droplets speckled the camera. Jen, where are you? Is that where your GPS took you? I asked aloud, startled by my own voice. The phone angled down and I assumed she was texting or reply. But as she lowered the camera, I felt sick to my stomach. Her feet were bare and muddy, like she had walked through a field. The text popped up at the top of my screen. You're not here. I'll show you. Jen, how did you get there? That's not my house. But she was already on the move. The camera showed her steadily walking under a trellis and up the porch, taking each step slow. She trained the camera perfectly still, taking me along with her. The window of the front door was broken, like someone had forced their way in. The camera showed a small, feminine hand reach and turned the knob. A hand that was covered in blood. Jen, I started, but the words caught in my throat. The camera pushed past the door and showed a living room in complete disarray. The couch was pushed out of place. The coffee table turned over. The television had been knocked on its side, painting the room in a strange blend of multi-colored hues. She moved quick, but something caught my eye. I could only see it briefly, but there was no mistaking in the shape. It looked like a pair of legs, stained sweatpants poking out from beneath the toppled entertainment center, like they had been crushed. Jen didn't linger on any place for long, but she slowly panned around the house. But everywhere the camera pointed, there was nothing but destruction. The dining room was destroyed. Pictures knocked from the walls, the dining table flipped. The kitchen was worse. The counters looked to be swept over entirely. Dishes broken, a knife block laying on its side. Nives everywhere. I caught a glimpse of something on the kitchen floor. It looked like a trash bag, but whatever was tied up in it looked almost too big. The bottom leaked to sickly red. Jen, what have you done? I croaked. If she could hear me, she gave no sign, only panning the camera, focusing on the blurry black carnage, focusing on the lack of me. Finally, the camera stopped, viewing down a dark hallway of the house. The hall light had been busted, but at the very end, a door was slightly ajar. The light left on. The camera focused long enough to show the stained trail leading into the room, then the call ended. The texts followed immediately after. See? Where are you? I didn't see you. They weren't you. The phone shook in my hand. I read the texts over and over, like I could hear the malicious confusion. I paced my living room, my heart racing. What was happening? What did she do? Was that even Jen? A detail in our chat log forced me to stop. I looked at one of the messages suddenly unable to breathe. It was one of mine. When I had sent almost an hour prior, 1400 West, 600 North. I didn't live at 600 North. I lived at 500 North. I must have hit 6 unaccident, but I didn't see the mistake until now. The whole time I was waiting for her to show up, she was heading somewhere else. Even though it was a typo, it was still someone else's address. A parallel country road, not even a mile away. And I had sent her there. I grabbed my keys and bolted out the door. My phone continued to vibrate, but I ignored it. Instead, dialing the police as I got into my car and pealed out of my driveway. I reported the incident in a ramble of panicked sobs. The scene of Jen's video fresh in my mind as I whiteluckled the wheel. My mind was reeling so much I hardly processed my drive to the station or the squad cars flying in the opposite direction, headed to whatever misery awaited them at the address I had sent. I hoped it was a prank, some kind of sick joke. I wish it was a nightmare that I had made it all up. I prayed that maybe I was the one who had lost their mind and had imagined the whole thing like some sort of lucid dream. But there was no denying the sternness in the officers that greeted me. The sickly shade that washed over the precinct as the details of the scene made their way back through the chatter. The side eyes cast my way as they collected my phone for evidence and when I sat for questioning. Even with the professionals, you can tell when something inexplicably horrible has taken place. They try to act like it's just another day at the office, but you can see it in their eyes. You can see the gears turned processing, just like everyone else. I don't know exactly what happened in the house or what had happened to the Jan I used to know. I don't know what would have happened to me if I had sent the right address. But it's not the muddy feet or the stillness of blood that haunts me now. It's the texts I received while driving to the police station that I was too busy to check. I only got a glance at them on the screen before they bagged my phone. But it was all I needed. It haunts me more than our video call and I find myself looking around the precinct, looking out onto the street, each passing car, each person traveling the sidewalk. I'm sorry, it appears there's been a miscalculation somewhere. I have addressed the issue. It appears the error was on your part. The error has been corrected. See you soon. Thumbs up. Thanks for watching. Everyone's told a lie. But what happens when one lie becomes a life, a movement, a conspiracy. I'm Josh Dean, host of chameleon, and I uncover true stories of deception scams so intimate and convincing they fooled the people closest to them. These are strangers, they're lovers, friends, and trusted allies. Because the most dangerous cons don't feel like crimes, they feel personal. Listen to chameleon wherever you get your podcasts.