I was on night patrol when a call came through the radio. There was a report about strange noises coming from an old, abandoned house on the outskirts of town.

It wasn’t part of my route, and I could have easily ignored it, but something deep inside me pushed me to go. It was a feeling I can’t explain.

The house was completely dark, still and silent. The moment I stepped inside, a quiet noise came from the basement. It sounded like a person. I took off the chain and slowly walked down while my hands were shaking.

The light of my flashlight fell on a boy’s small figure. He wasn’t crying, just shaking.

I carried him out and rushed him to the hospital. Within minutes, doctors, nurses, and officers surrounded us, each one stunned by what they saw. No one could understand that someone could experience such cruelty. The same question haunted every face: Who locked that boy down there, and how long had he been trapped?

When he stabilized, he still refused to speak. The next morning, I went back to see him. I introduced myself and sat quietly at his bedside. After a moment, he looked up and whispered, “Hi.”

I told him he was safe now and that no one could hurt him anymore. He then gave me his hands and after a long silence, he began to speak. Every single word he uttered felt heavy.

He said the man who kept, and whom he called “uncle,” visited him often, and sometimes there were other kids there. Some of them were there just for a night and he never saw them again. The boy was locked in that basement for around two weeks.

Investigators later found children’s toys in the basement, along with an old computer holding dozens of files: names, dates, short notes. Each line was a child.

When the story broke, the press called it The Black House Case. The whole city froze in disbelief. No one could imagine something so monstrous happening so close to home.

Eventually, we caught the man. He tried to escape across the border but didn’t make it far. During interrogation, he would’t say anything except for some chilling words, “Do you really think I was alone?”

Further investigation revealed that the house was one of many houses used in an international trafficking network.

When I heard the news, I returned to the hospital. This time, the boy was there with his parents.

I stood at the doorway for a moment before stepping closer. “It’s over now,” I said quietly. “You’re home. You’re free.”

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