The phone call was a jolt, a cold splash of dread that ripped through the quiet of my afternoon. My mother’s voice, usually a warm, familiar melody, was a panicked whisper, a desperate plea. “Please, come save me from him!” she cried, the line abruptly going dead.

My son, Michael, had volunteered to spend the summer with her, a surprising turn of events. He’d always been a city kid, resistant to the quiet charm of my mother’s small-town life. But this year, he’d insisted, offering to take care of her, to give her caregiver a break.

My mother, fiercely independent despite her disability, refused to leave her house or move into assisted living. Michael’s offer seemed like a win-win, a chance for him to prove his newfound maturity, a break for me.

The first week had been idyllic. Michael was cheerful on the phone, regaling me with stories of fishing trips and local festivals. But a nagging unease had crept in when he consistently deflected my requests to speak with my mother, claiming she was busy or asleep.

Now, this phone call, a desperate cry for help, confirmed my worst fears. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my keys, my heart pounding against my ribs, and sped towards my mother’s town.

The drive was a blur, a frantic race against time. The familiar landmarks of my childhood blurred past, each mile a torturous delay. As I pulled into my mother’s street, a sense of dread settled over me. The house, usually a beacon of warmth and light, stood dark and silent, its paint peeling, its once vibrant garden overgrown and neglected.

I parked the car and rushed to the front door, my hand trembling as I turned the knob. The door creaked open, revealing a scene that made my blood run cold.

The house was a disaster. Furniture was overturned, dust motes danced in the single beam of moonlight filtering through a grimy window, and a strange, acrid smell hung in the air.

“Mom?” I called out, my voice echoing through the silent house. “Michael?”

I moved through the living room, my footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust on the floor. The kitchen was a scene of chaos, dishes piled high in the sink, food rotting on the counter.

Then, I saw her. My mother was slumped in her wheelchair, her head resting on the armrest, her body still.

“Mom!” I cried, rushing to her side. I gently shook her shoulder, and her eyes fluttered open.

“Oh, darling,” she whispered, her voice weak. “He’s gone. He took everything.”

“Who, Mom? Michael?”

She nodded, her eyes filled with fear. “He changed, darling. He… he wasn’t the boy I knew. He became obsessed with… with things. He kept asking about your father’s old coin collection, and your grandmother’s jewelry.”

I helped her sit up, and she continued, “He said he needed to ‘make things right’ and that we were holding him back. He stopped letting the caregiver in, and he wouldn’t let me call you. He said he was taking care of me, but he was just… waiting.”

“Waiting for what, Mom?”

“I don’t know, darling. I woke up this morning, and he was gone. He took the coins, the jewelry, even my old locket. He left me here, alone, in the dark.”

I looked around the ravaged house, the empty spaces where precious heirlooms once sat, and a wave of anger washed over me. Michael, my son, had betrayed my trust, had abandoned his grandmother, had stolen from her.

I called the police, my voice trembling with rage. As I recounted the events of the past few weeks, a sense of disbelief settled over me. How could my son, the boy I had raised with love and care, have turned into this?

The police searched the house, documenting the damage, taking my mother’s statement. They promised to investigate, to find Michael, to bring him to justice.

As I sat beside my mother, holding her frail hand, I knew that the summer had taken a dark turn, a turn that would forever change our lives. I didn’t know what had happened to my son, or what had driven him to this act of betrayal. But I knew that I would find him, and I would make him answer for what he had done.