The police station received its strangest call at 3:17 AM. An eight-year-old’s trembling voice whispered, “My daddy’s under the floor.”
Officer Ramirez nearly hung up. “Sweetheart, where’s your mom?”
“She won’t listen,” the girl sniffled. “But Daddy told me in my dream. He’s right beneath the new floor.”
What made Ramirez pause wasn’t the absurd claim – it was the certainty in that small voice.
At the suburban home, a perfectly composed woman answered. “My daughter has nightmares,” she explained, smoothing her blouse. “My husband’s abroad on business.”
But the girl stood rigid, pointing to fresh laminate near the fireplace. “There.”
When the crowbar cracked the first board, the smell hit them.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled a plastic-wrapped corpse from the concrete. The missing husband. Single blow to the head.
The mother’s alibi unraveled faster than the crime scene tape. Construction workers recalled her odd request to “pour the foundation extra thick.”
But the real mystery? How the girl knew.
In tears, she described her dream: “Daddy said he couldn’t leave until someone found him.”
