It was supposed to be a quiet evening in the small town. The police duty officer was reviewing the day’s reports when the phone rang. On the other end was a thin, trembling child’s voice.

— Hello… Please, help… — it came through sobs. — My dad is under the floor.

The officer frowned. Calls like this didn’t happen every day.

— Sweetheart, what’s your name? — he asked gently. — Can you hand the phone to your mom?

— Mom doesn’t believe me, — came the reply. — She says I’m making it up. But it’s true… Dad told me himself.

— And where is he now? — the officer asked, a chill creeping down his spine.

— He came to me in a dream… — the girl whispered. — He said he went far away… and he’s lying under the floor.

The officer exchanged a look with his partner. The story sounded strange, even absurd, and their first instinct was to refer the case to social services — perhaps the girl was dealing with trauma. But there was something in her voice, a raw desperation, that couldn’t be ignored.

— We’d better check, — the second officer said curtly. — Just in case.

The house they arrived at looked perfectly normal — neat facade, tidy yard. A woman in her forties met them at the door. She seemed surprised by their visit but, upon hearing they had come because of her daughter, sighed impatiently.

— She’s making it up, — the mother snapped. — Since her father left, she’s been having nightmares.

The girl stood off to the side, clutching a worn teddy bear to her chest. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but there was a stubborn fire in them. She silently pointed toward the living room, to a spot near the wall where fresh laminate flooring had been installed.

— Here, — she murmured. — He’s here.

The mother rolled her eyes but reluctantly allowed the officers to inspect the floor. She kept muttering that it was a waste of time.

The moment the first boards were pried up, a sharp, heavy smell filled the air. One officer froze, glancing at his partner. The mother’s face drained of color as she instinctively took a step back.

A few more boards came up, revealing black plastic sheeting. Inside, tightly bound with duct tape, was a human body. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Forensics quickly confirmed that it was a man in his forties. Documents and physical identifiers proved it was the girl’s father, who had been reported missing nearly a month earlier.

The cause of death was a severe head injury. The laminate had been laid down just days before his disappearance. Suspicion immediately fell on the mother, who denied any involvement. Her statements were inconsistent, and evidence increasingly pointed to a violent domestic incident.

But the most unsettling part was how the child “knew” where to find him. She insisted: her father had come to her in a dream, spoken to her, and asked her to tell the police.

Neighbors were stunned. The family had always appeared respectable, without visible conflicts. What lay under the floor shattered that image forever.

The girl now lives with relatives. Psychologists work with her daily, trying to help her heal from the trauma. The investigation is ongoing: the mother still proclaims her innocence, but the evidence tells a different story.

Yet for everyone who has heard this story, one question remains — one no one can truly answer: how could an eight-year-old girl know so precisely that her father was buried beneath the floorboards?