Pets n Story

The plan was to be chill. Drop him off, help carry a few boxes, maybe take a picture if he let me, and then drive off like every other proud parent. I’d practiced it in my head. No big tears. No guilt trips. Let him start his life.

We made it through the drive, the unpacking, and even the roommate introductions without a hitch. He looked excited—nervous, but excited. He was wearing that same smirk he always does when he’s trying to hide emotion.

But when we stood in the common area to say goodbye, something shifted.

He hugged me, then didn’t let go right away.

“You okay?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah,” he said. But his voice cracked just a little.

I pulled back and looked at him. “You sure?”

He nodded. “I just—Dad, if something weird happens, can I call you? Like even if it’s the middle of the night?”

Weird? I tried to keep my face calm. “Of course. Always.”

Then he leaned in, real low, and whispered something I haven’t stopped thinking about since—

“If I call and say the phrase ‘I left the kettle on,’ come get me. No questions.”

It was so odd, I thought maybe it was a joke. But his face wasn’t joking. His eyes were darting around, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

I smiled, trying to downplay it. “Alright. ‘Kettle on.’ Got it.”

He nodded like that settled something for him. Then he straightened up and gave me one last quick hug before disappearing back into his dorm. I got in the car and tried to shake the unease.

Weeks passed.

We texted a bit. A few calls here and there. He mentioned classes were tough, that his roommate snored like a train, and that he missed proper food. Nothing alarming.

Still, I couldn’t forget that phrase.

Then, about six weeks in, my phone rang at 2:13 in the morning.

It was him.

I picked up instantly, heart racing. “You alright?”

His voice was quiet. Shaky.

“I left the kettle on.”

My blood went cold. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m outside the music building. I had to leave my phone behind. Borrowed someone’s.”

I didn’t even think. I was in the car in ten minutes, still in my pajamas, and speeding down the motorway. It was nearly a four-hour drive, but I made it in three. I parked near campus and spotted him by the sculpture garden near the entrance. He looked thinner. Pale. And scared.

We didn’t speak much. He got in the car and locked the door immediately.

“You okay?”

“I will be,” he said. “Can we just drive?”

So we did.

Only when we were halfway home, did he start to talk.

“There’s this professor,” he began. “He teaches Comparative Mythology. Seemed harmless at first—eccentric, but not dangerous.”

I waited.

“Except then he started doing these… experiments.”

My hands tightened on the wheel.

“Like…hypnosis stuff. Said it was for a project. Volunteer-only. I signed up cause I thought it’d be cool.”

He swallowed hard.

“But it wasn’t just hypnosis. He had this room, in the basement of the old library wing. No windows. Smelled like metal. He’d put us under, ask us weird things. Personal things. Some people didn’t even remember the sessions afterward.”

“Did you?” I asked.

“Bits. Enough to know something was wrong.”

He looked out the window, as if making sure we weren’t being followed.

“Last week, a girl in my group dropped out. Her friends said she started sleepwalking. Talking in weird voices. Said stuff about ancient gates and ‘the eye in the mirror.’ They thought she was messing around.”

“Did you see her?”

He nodded. “She didn’t look like herself.”

I didn’t know what to say. Was it drugs? A prank? A cult?

“I think he’s using us,” my son whispered. “For something. Something he shouldn’t be messing with.”

I pulled over just outside a gas station to catch my breath.

“Do you want to go to the police?”

He hesitated. “Not yet. I just wanted to get away.”

We got home around dawn. I made him pancakes. He barely ate. Mostly just stared at his hands.

He slept most of that day. And the next.

Then, two mornings later, we heard a knock on the door.

A tall woman stood there, dressed in a long beige coat. She introduced herself as Detective Harris. Said she was looking into some “odd occurrences” at the university. I asked how she found us.

“There was a note left on your son’s dorm bed. It had your name and address.”

My son came to the door, pale as ever. When he saw her, he tensed.

“You were in the group,” he said quietly.

She gave him a look I couldn’t quite read. “Yes. Undercover.”

The next hour was a blur. She explained there had been complaints before. Rumors. Even a few missing students years ago that were never tied to anything concrete. But recently, some students started showing up in the infirmary—confused, speaking in riddles, and unable to remember basic things like their own names.

The professor, Dr. Avery Corven, had taught at multiple institutions. Always left just before a scandal broke.

And now they were finally watching him.

My son’s story matched up with two others. They’d been hypnotized, manipulated, even frightened into staying silent.

But because my son left and contacted me, she said, they finally had enough to act.

It was over a month later when we got the call: Dr. Corven had been arrested.

His office had hidden files, recordings, and journals. Some of the content was so bizarre, they said it would take experts years to unravel. But what mattered was that no one would be harmed again.

And that girl who’d dropped out? She was slowly recovering.

My son started therapy. Took time off school. For a while, he didn’t speak much. But then, slowly, the color returned to his face. The spark in his eyes came back.

One evening, as we were sitting on the porch, he said, “Thanks for believing me, Dad.”

I reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Always.”

That night, I lay awake, thinking.

Not just about how close we’d come to something terrible, but how easily things can look normal on the outside while being so very wrong underneath.

He went back to uni six months later—but to a different one. Smaller, closer to home.

This time, I didn’t let him go alone. I met his professors, walked the campus with him, and stayed in a nearby motel the first night.

Just in case.

Now he’s in his third year, thriving. He’s studying psychology, wants to specialize in trauma. Says he wants to help others the way he was helped.

I never told him, but I kept that phrase—“I left the kettle on”—written on a sticky note in my wallet.

Just in case he ever needed me again.

But he never has.

Sometimes, life throws you into darkness without warning. And sometimes, that same darkness helps you see the light in people you didn’t expect—like a detective who used her own past to go undercover, or a scared boy who found the courage to speak.

The world’s messy. Scary, even.

But when someone tells you they need help—listen.

Even if they’re using strange codewords.

Especially then.

Because sometimes, believing someone in their weirdest moment might just be the thing that saves them.

So yeah, my boy went to uni. And something was off.

But thank God he trusted his gut. And thank God he knew he could call.

If you’ve read this far—thank you.

If you’re a parent, trust your instincts.

If you’re a kid—call home. You’ll never regret it.

And if this story made you feel something, helped you remember someone, or just reminded you to look out for each other—please share it. Maybe someone out there is waiting for the sign to say, “Hey. I need help. The kettle’s on.”

And maybe they’ll be lucky enough to be believed.