“Don’t Put On Your Red Coat Today,” My Grandson Told Me. Later That Day, I Saw the Reason – and My Stomach Dropped

A Warning in the Dark

My grandson called me at 5:00 a.m. and said “Grandma, don’t wear your red coat today.”

I asked why and with a trembling voice he said “You’ll understand soon.”

At 9:00 a.m. I went to catch the bus. When I arrived, I froze in place the moment I saw what was unfolding there.

Don’t forget to subscribe to the channel and comment where you’re watching from. The phone rang at exactly 5:00 in the morning.

I know because I was already awake, sitting in my grandmother’s rocking chair by the window. I was watching the darkness slowly surrender to dawn.

At 63, sleep comes in fragments now, scattered like puzzle pieces I can’t quite fit together anymore. The farmhouse creaked around me, making those familiar sounds of old wood settling that I’d known my entire life.

When I saw Danny’s name on the screen, my heart lurched. My grandson never called at this hour, never.

Grandma, his voice was barely a whisper, trembling like a candle flame in the wind. “Danny, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Grandma, please, you have to listen to me.” There was something in his tone that made my blood run cold, not panic exactly, but something worse.

It was fear mixed with urgency. “Don’t wear your red coat today. Please.”

I glanced at the coat rack near the front door where my cherry red winter coat hung. It hung like it did every morning during this Montana winter.

I’d bought it three years ago in Billings. It was a splurge I justified because it made me visible on the dark rural roads and kept me safe.

“Danny, what are you talking about?”

“Just please, Grandma, don’t wear it. Wear anything else. Promise me.”

“You’re scaring me, honey. Where are you? Are you all right?”

“I can’t explain right now. You’ll understand soon. Just promise me, please.”

The line went dead. I sat there, the phone cooling against my ear, staring at that red coat.

The house felt different suddenly, as if something had shifted in the walls themselves. Outside, the first birds began their morning songs, oblivious to the dread creeping through my chest.

I didn’t wear the red coat. Instead, I pulled on my old brown jacket, the one with the worn elbows that I usually saved for working in the barn.

Something in Danny’s voice had reached deep into my grandmother’s instinct. It was that ancient knowing that told me to trust him without question.

Tragedy at the Bus Stop

At 9:00, I walked down our long gravel driveway toward the county road where the bus stopped. I’d been taking the same bus into town every Tuesday and Friday for the past five years.

This routine started ever since my husband Frank passed and I’d sold our second car. The routine was comforting: bus at 9:15, grocery shopping, lunch at Betty’s Diner, and home by 3:00.

But today there was no bus. Instead, there were police cars, four of them, their lights painting the gray morning in urgent reds and blues.

Yellow tape stretched across the bus stop shelter, that simple three-sided structure where I’d waited countless times. I would usually be there reading my book or watching the wheat fields roll away toward the horizon.

Sheriff Tom Brennan saw me approaching and immediately stepped forward, his hand raised. “Mrs. Alexia Foster, you need to stay back please.”

“Tom, what happened? I need to catch the bus.”

“There won’t be a bus this morning, Alexia.”

His face was grave, and the lines around his eyes were deeper than I remembered. We’d gone to high school together 45 years ago.

“There’s been an incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

He hesitated, glancing back at the crime scene investigators moving around the shelter. “A body was found here this morning, about 6:00 a.m.”

The world tilted slightly. “A body? Who?”

“We haven’t identified her yet, but Alexia…” He paused, his eyes searching mine. “She was wearing a red coat. Cherry red, just like yours.”

My knees went weak. Tom caught my elbow, steadying me.

“Are you all right? You’ve gone pale.”

“I need to sit down.”

He guided me to his patrol car and helped me into the passenger seat. Through the windshield, I could see them photographing something near the shelter, a shape covered with a white tarp.

“Tom, Danny called me this morning at 5:00. He told me not to wear my red coat today.”

The Forged Deed

The sheriff’s expression changed instantly, shifting from concerned neighbor to focused lawman. “Your grandson called you? What exactly did he say?”

I repeated the conversation word for word. Tom pulled out his notebook, writing quickly.

“Where is Danny now?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He just… he sounded terrified, Tom.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Sunday dinner, three days ago. He seemed fine then, normal.”

But even as I said it, I wondered if that was true. Had he seemed normal, or had I been too caught up in the usual family chaos to notice?

Sunday dinner at the farmhouse was a tradition I’d maintained for 30 years. My son Robert, his wife Vanessa, and Danny all came without fail.

But lately, the meals had been tense. Vanessa had been pushing me to sell the farm to move into a retirement community in town.

She’d brought brochures, floor plans, and financial projections. “Mom, you’re not getting any younger,” Robert had said, paring his wife’s words. “This place is too much for you to manage alone.”

But it wasn’t too much; it was my life. Every room held memories of Frank, of raising Robert, and of summers with Danny running through the fields.

The thought of leaving made me physically ill. A young detective approached, a woman with sharp eyes and dark hair pulled back in a tight bun.

“Mrs. Foster, I’m Detective Roxan Merrick. I understand your grandson may have information about this incident.”

I explained again about Danny’s call. She exchanged glances with Tom.

“We need to speak with Danny as soon as possible. Do you have any way to reach him?”

“I can try calling.”

But when I did, it went straight to voicemail. I tried three more times, but there was nothing.

“Does he live with you?” Detective Merrick asked.

“No, he lives with my son and daughter-in-law in town. He’s 19, studying at the community college.”

“We’ll need their address.”

I gave it to her, a sick feeling growing in my stomach. What had Danny gotten himself into, and why did he know about this woman before anyone else?

The detective’s radio crackled. A voice said something about forensics and preliminary findings.

Merrick stepped away to respond, leaving me alone with Tom. “Alexia, I need to ask you something.” Tom’s voice was low, almost apologetic. “When’s the last time you wore that red coat?”

“Yesterday. I wore it into town for my book club meeting.”

“And how many people would know you wear it regularly?”

The question hit me like ice water. “Everyone, I suppose. I wear it every time I go out. It’s distinctive, that’s why I bought it.”

“And who specifically would know you take the bus on Tuesday and Friday mornings from this stop?”

“My family, the other regular bus riders, Betty at the diner… half the town probably.” My voice was rising. “Tom, what are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything yet. But someone was killed here wearing a coat identical to yours, at the exact location where you would normally be standing. And your grandson warned you to stay away.”

The implications crashed over me like a wave. Someone had wanted to kill me, and somehow, impossibly, Danny had known.

Tom’s radio erupted with static and urgent voices. He pressed it to his ear, his face darkening. “Say that again,” he said into the radio.

There was more static, a voice I couldn’t make out. Tom looked at me, and I saw something in his eyes that made my heart stop.

It was not just concern now, but suspicion. “Alexia, I need you to come down to the station with me.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“That body… we just identified her through her phone.”

“Who is she?”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “Her name was Rachel Morrison. She worked at County Records downtown. And according to her phone logs, she’d been in contact with your grandson, Danny, multiple times over the past two weeks.”

The morning suddenly felt colder than any Montana winter I’d ever known. “There’s something else,” Tom continued. “We found a document in her coat pocket. It’s a property deed for your farm.”

“That’s impossible. The farm’s been in my family for four generations. There’s no question about the deed, Alexia.”

“This deed is dated last month. And according to the document, you signed the property over to your son Robert and his wife Vanessa.”

“That’s insane. I would never.”

“The signature looks authentic. County Records has a copy on file, officially recorded three weeks ago.”