He Blocked My Call on April Fools' ,His Father Burned Alive

The old house was on fire. I called John Stewart immediately. He was a rescue squad captain. If anyone could help, it was him.

John, the old house is on fire! Your dad drank too much and he's still asleep inside! You have to get your team here now!

Before I could even finish, John hung up.

Two minutes later, a voice message came through.

"Stella Delgado, even if it's April Fools' Day, you shouldn't joke about something like this!"

"I know you're jealous because I went out alone with Denise, but it's her birthday. I have to stay with her until it's over, so stop bothering me!"

I stared at the inferno raging in front of me, frozen.

I scrambled to record a video and sent it to him. In the footage, you could clearly hear my father-in-law's agonized screams.

But the moment the message went through, a red exclamation mark appeared beside it.

John had blocked me. He'd actually blocked me so I wouldn't disturb him again.

The old house sat deep in the mountains, at the end of roads so rough they barely qualified as roads. Even if I called 911, they wouldn't make it here until morning.

I started calling John over and over, frantic, desperate.

I called until my phone died. Until the screen went black. I never got through.

I collapsed to the ground as my father-in-law's screams tore through the night, raw and guttural, until they didn't.

It wasn't until the following dawn, sitting in the ashes of what had been a home, that I finally saw John.

He'd been chatting and laughing with Denise Simmons as they walked up. The moment he saw the wreckage, he went rigid.

Eight years of marriage. Even though the last two years had worn us down to something thin and colorless, this was still life and death. His father's life and death.

I gathered what little strength I had left and stood, wanting to comfort him.

"John, I'm so sor"

"Sorry? Don't you dare say sorry to me!"

He cut me off, voice like a blade. He jabbed a finger at the scorched earth behind me and screamed in my face.

"Stella, are you out of your mind?!"

"Over an April Fools' prank, you actually burned down the house? I spent over four hundred thousand dollars building this place!"

"Denise kept warning me. She said something was off with you, told me I needed to keep a closer eye on you. I didn't listen. Turns out she was right all along. You really are that stupid!"

I opened my mouth to fight back, to say something.

But then I thought of my father-in-law. Burned alive in there last night.

The words died in my throat.

John's mother had hemorrhaged during his birth and never made it. For over twenty years, his father had raised him alone, playing both mother and father. That was why John's bond with his dad ran so deep.

I swallowed my anger. Steadied myself. Stepped toward him again.

"John, I didn't set the fire. The wiring was old. It short-circuited. Your dad"

"Why do you keep bringing up my dad?!"

He cut me off again.

"Don't think that just because my dad was good to you, you can burn the house down and get away with it!"

"Faulty wiring? Stella, you can't even lie properly. I built this house last year. Denise connected me with the construction crew. Top-quality work across the board. You're telling me the wiring failed in one year?"

Denise covered her mouth and let out a little laugh.

"Stella, I know you must be jealous that John spent my birthday with me, but you can't just burn the house down in a fit of rage! If you keep being this reckless, John's only going to resent you more."

"He doesn't have to wait." John pointed his finger straight at the tip of my nose, disgust pooling in his eyes. "I already can't stand the sight of you."

"Stella, I'm telling you right now. However you destroyed this house, you're going to put it back exactly the way it was. If a single thing is off, you'll see what happens."

The fury churned inside my chest like a living thing.

But my father-in-law's screams from the night before kept echoing in my ears, pushing that rage back down every time it tried to rise.

Eight years. Terry had been good to me for eight years.

Back in the countryside, dying in a fire was considered an unnatural death. He'd been lying in there all night. If we didn't arrange his funeral soon, I was afraid his spirit wouldn't find peace.

So I stepped forward and grabbed John's sleeve.

"John, your father is in there! Come inside with me and look!"

I was terrified he'd cut me off again, so I forced every word out as fast as I could.

John froze for a second.

Then he shoved me away.

He used real force. I crumpled onto the blackened wreckage, palms scraping against charred debris.

John pointed down at me, jaw clenched, voice like a blade.

"Stella, you've lost your goddamn mind! My father treated you like his own daughter, and now you're standing here cursing him dead?! What kind of daughter-in-law are you?! What kind of person are you?!"

"John"

"Shut up! On the way here, Denise showed me a text my dad sent her this morning wishing her happy birthday! So what, he's dead and sending messages from beyond the grave now?!"

My head snapped up. My gaze shot past John to Denise standing behind him.

The instant our eyes met, she looked away. She stepped forward and tugged gently at John's hand.

"Johnny, I'm a little tired. Let's head back to the city. It's so dark out here... it's creepy."

John glared at me one last time.

The second he turned to Denise, his entire tone shifted.

"Okay. Don't be scared. We're leaving right now."

He took her hand and started to walk away.

But the moment he turned, an old man in plain clothes came rushing up from behind, waving his arms at me as he ran.

"Miss! The old fellow who was trapped in the house last nightdid they get him out?"

In the urgency of that voice, John went rigid where he stood.

"Miss." Old Mr. Harmon reached me and clasped my hand in both of his. "Yesterday, I heard you calling him Dad the whole time. How is he? He was a good man, a real good man. That wine was from me, you know..." He trailed off with a heavy sigh.

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

John cut the old man off, lunging forward and seizing him by the collar.

"Are you saying there was actually someone inside that house when it burned?!"

Old Mr. Harmon blinked, bewildered.

"Of course there was. He was screaming for help the whole time, screaming like his lungs would burst. I don't know if he"

"Stop!"

John's voice cracked. He gripped the old man's collar tighter, his words scraping out raw and hoarse.

"Answer me. The person inside last nighthow old was he? What was he wearing? What did he look like?!"

Old Mr. Harmon stared at him, confused.

"Who are you, exactly...?"

"Just answer me!!"

The old man paused for two long seconds, then spoke slowly.

"Older than me. An old fellow..."

The color drained from John's face.

I, on the other hand, finally let out a breath.

I'd already started searching for cemeteries on my phone, ready to make arrangements for Terry's burial.

Old Mr. Harmon was still going, his words coming in halting fragments.

"Thin build. Full head of black hair"

"What?!"

John's roar tore through the air, cutting the old man off mid-sentence.

"You said black hair?!"

"That's right..."

I had just added the cemetery manager's contact on my phone when I heard John exhale.

I looked up slowly. Our eyes met.

The tension in his face had dissolved. Something unspeakable had settled in its placerelief. He pointed at me and let a few quiet words fall from his lips.

Stella, so the one who died was your father...

My entire body went numb.

I was about to explain, but John suddenly laughed.

"Stella, your dad was always like this. Couldn't stand to miss out on anything free. I built this house for my father, and yours just had to come stay a few days. Fine, stay then, but he went and set the place on fire..."

As he spoke, his amusement curdled into anger.

"People like your father are insufferable. Can't even die without causing a scene. This house cost me four hundred thousand dollars to build! He dies in it, and now what? How is my dad supposed to live here?!"

His words struck me like lightning. I stood frozen, rooted to the scorched earth.

So he really believed it was my father who died in there.

So this was what he'd always thought of my dad.

So my father was dead, and he could actually stand there and laugh.

He seemed to have forgotten that the money he used to fund his rescue squad, to launch his business, every last dollar of it had been scraped together by my father through years of scrimping and sacrifice. Even this house he'd built for his own dad, my father had paid for more than half of it.

The frantic anguish that had been tearing through my chest moments ago went suddenly, eerily still.

John, still seething, was already on the phone.

"Listen, I need you to find me a few spiritualists right now. Someone died in a fire at my family's old house. Get them out here to perform a rite and suppress the spirit."

After he hung up, he jabbed a finger at me, teeth clenched.

"Your dad loved staying here so much? Then let his ghost rot in this place forever."

"Running into this kind of thing first thing in the morning. What rotten luck."

"Denise, get away from here. I don't want any of this bad energy rubbing off on you. Go wait in the car."

As he turned, I caught a glimpse of Denise's eyes, darting and evasive.

She didn't look so smug anymore.

About half an hour later, the spiritualists John had summoned arrived. They circled the charred remains of the old house and began their work. When the lead practitioner let out a final, commanding shout, a wave of cold swept across my back like a draft from somewhere that shouldn't exist.

It was as if my father-in-law's cries for help were spiraling right beside my ear.

It was the dead of summer, sweltering heat pressing down on everything, yet cold sweat crawled across my skin in an instant. I hugged my shoulders and shrank back without thinking.

The lead spiritualist stepped past me and clasped John's hand.

"All done. Rest easy. The one who died in there is condemned to never find peace. Not in this life, not in any life after."

"Good, good. Thank you. What do I do next?"

"Pull the body out. Do whatever you want with it. Then renovate the house. It'll be perfectly fine to live in again." The man paused. "When I was performing the rite, that spirit was fighting back something fierce. Seemed like it wanted to say something, plead some kind of grievance. But you already told me the whole story, so I forced it down all the same."

"Good. Good. Thank you..."

John walked the spiritualists out with a smile on his face, chatting and laughing the entire way.

Old Mr. Harmon, who had been standing nearby the whole time, tugged gently at my sleeve.

"Miss, that young man is your husband, isn't he? He treats your father like this, and you still won't divorce him?"

"It's not time yet."

I turned to the old man and smiled.

"Sir, the one who died in there wasn't my father."

His eyes widened. "You mean... the one inside was his..."

I nodded.

Old Mr. Harmon slapped his thigh so hard the sound cracked through the air.

"Lord have mercy! A son condemning his own father to never rest in peace. What kind of sin is that..."

"What are you two whispering about?!"

John stormed over and seized the old man by the shoulder.

"What do you mean, sin?! What happens in my family is none of your damn business!"

I shot Old Mr. Harmon a look.

He shook off John's hand and shook his head with a weary sigh. "Ah, it's nothing, nothing..."

"That's right, what's it got to do with me anyway..."

"Such a shame, though. That old fellow was a good man..."

His words stirred a fresh wave of bitterness in my chest.

He was right. My father-in-law had been a good man.

Even if his spirit had been suppressed beneath the earth, the least we could do was give his body a proper resting place.

I found the contact for a cemetery manager and held my phone out in front of John.

"Find him a decent burial plot."

"A burial plot?!"

John cut me off, his voice sharp as a blade. He shoved my phone aside.

"That spiritualist already cost a fortune. This house still needs to be rebuilt, and that's another mountain of money. Where the hell am I supposed to find cash for a burial plot?!"

"Your father got himself killed. If you want to spend money on him, spend your own. I'm not paying for it!"

The memory of my father-in-law's kind face, his warm smile, flickered through my mind.

I clenched my teeth, my voice trembling. "Fine. I'll pay."

"You'll pay?!"

John looked at me and let out a mocking laugh.

"You want to pay? Then go earn the money first! You eat my food, you drink my water. What money do you have?!"

A wave of bitter anguish crashed through me.

Years of heavy socializing had wrecked John's health and left him nearly infertile. For three years, I had given up my career entirely, pouring everything into round after round of IVF, desperate to give him an heir.

In the beginning, John had understood my sacrifice. He had appreciated what it cost me.

But three years. That was all it took for him to see me as dead weight.

He was right. I had no money. So fine, no burial plot.

"Alright, John. Forget the burial plot. You handle it."

John looked pleased that I'd backed down so quickly.

He made a phone call and summoned a group of guys. Sitting in his car with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, he pointed at the charred ruins of the old house and barked his orders.

"Go drag that burned-up corpse out of there. Goddamn bad luck, the whole thing."

The young men took the cash and got to work without hesitation. In no time at all, they carried my father-in-law out on a stretcher, a white sheet draped over him.

As they passed me, I saw his hand hanging off the edge of the stretcher.

Burned black as charcoal.

But his fingers were still clenched around something.

I stopped them and stepped forward.

The moment I saw what he was holding, the tears came in a flood I couldn't stop.

Even scorched beyond recognition, it was unmistakable. Clutched in my father-in-law's charred hand was the photograph from my wedding to John.

The bitterness swelled until it filled every corner of my chest.

I turned slowly and looked at John, who sat with one leg crossed over the other, smoking without a care in the world.

"John. Don't you want to come see this?"

"See what?! What's there to see about some burned-up dead body?!"

"And stay away from that thing! I'm telling you, if you pick up any of that bad luck, don't bother coming home!"

He waved impatiently at the young men. The one in front shoved me aside, then looked up at John.

"Boss, what do you want us to do with the body?"

"Take him to the funeral home."

I got the words out before John could answer, then turned to face him.

"John, can you lend me some money? I want to give Dad a proper burial. I already asked. Burial plots come in all price ranges. If money's tight, we can get the cheapest one. That would be enough."

"Cheap isn't free!"

John cut me off.

He flicked the cigarette butt aside, disgust practically spilling from his eyes.

He pointed at the body on the ground, every word dripping with contempt.

"Just go dump it in the village cesspit. Burying it on the hillside would be a waste of good land."

"The cesspit?!"

I stared at John, unable to believe what I was hearing.

"John, have you lost your mind? Since when does anyone throw a body into a cesspit?!"

The young men's faces darkened too.

"Man, the old guy's dead. No matter what, he deserves a proper burial. The cesspit really isn't right..."

They set the stretcher down as they spoke.

"Look, if you want the body dumped in a cesspit, that's not something we can do. That's not human."

The young men exchanged a glance, then turned and walked away.

John swore under his breath, irritation boiling over.

Then he grabbed the stretcher himself.

He headed straight for the cesspit.

When he reached the edge, I stepped in front of him and pointed at the stretcher, keeping my voice low.

"John. You won't even pull back the sheet for one last look?"

He shoved my hand away with a grunt of fury.

"Look at what? The old man's dead. What's there to see? I'm sick of dealing with this!"

The words had barely left his mouth before he heaved the stretcher forward. The charred remains of my father-in-law tumbled into the cesspit.

He ripped off his jacket and scrubbed his hands with it, over and over, muttering the whole time.

"Stella, your father was the most insufferable person alive. Nobody could stand him when he was breathing, and now he's dead and still making my life miserable"

He didn't get to finish.

A familiar voice came from behind us.

"Stella, sweetie! What are you and John chatting about?"

John whipped around. His gaze landed on my father, strolling toward us at an easy pace.