The door opened just wide enough for the stale hallway light to crawl into the room. Chris stood frozen, the phone heavy in his hand, screen still glowing with that last message: Check your door.
A cold draft touched his ankles like icy fingers. He couldn't breathe. He wanted to slam the door shut, to run to Dozie's bed and wait for him to come back — but his roommate was gone for the weekend, the bed was empty, the whole hostel felt emptier than ever.
Chris took one step toward the door, half-expecting someone to shove it wide and grab him. But no one came. The corridor outside stretched quiet and dead, lined with flickering shadows under the single weak bulb at the far end.
He reached for the handle, pushing it shut slowly, heartbeat thundering in his ears. The latch clicked into place. He turned the key twice for good measure and pressed his forehead against the cool wood.
It didn't help. The chill in his bones wouldn't leave.
He turned back to the desk where the phone sat — cracked screen still alive, as if it was breathing in the dark with him. He dropped it onto his bed like it burned him.
"I don't want this," he said out loud, voice trembling. "I don't want you. Just stop."
The phone buzzed once, then fell silent. Chris crawled under his blanket, pulling it over his head like he used to as a boy when his father's temper roared through their small flat. But even under the thick fabric, the darkness felt alive — pressing against his skin, filling his ears with the faint hiss of static.
He must have drifted into an uneasy half-sleep because when he opened his eyes, the light bulb above him flickered weakly. His room felt colder than it ever had. He shivered and checked his phone's clock. 3:06 AM.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Chris flinched. He hadn't heard it vibrate — it was like the phone was pulsing with its own heartbeat, buried somewhere under his pillow. He pulled it out with trembling fingers. The cracked screen blinked once — then a video started playing by itself.
At first, he thought it was his reflection — blurry, pixelated — but then the camera pulled back. It showed him, curled under his blanket, clutching the phone like a talisman.
He stared at the moving image of himself on the screen. The shot was from the ceiling corner — a place no camera should be. He looked up. Nothing. Just the fan blades squeaking in slow, lazy circles.
His eyes darted back to the video. Behind his sleeping form, a shadow shifted — tall, thin, too long to be human. It leaned down until its shape blocked the lens. He couldn't see a face — just darkness swallowing the picture.
The video glitched. A soft whisper oozed from the speaker: "Chris…"
He dropped the phone like it bit him. It landed screen up, still playing the shadow over and over — his own image trapped in the loop.
Chris stumbled back until his spine hit the wall. He covered his ears, but the whisper crawled under his palms anyway:
"Chris… open your eyes…"
"I am awake!" he rasped, but the voice laughed — a dry, scraping sound that made bile rise in his throat.
The phone buzzed again. He forced himself to look. A new message:
Unknown Number: You're not alone.
His eyes darted around the room. Nothing. The chair was still in front of the wardrobe. His textbooks stacked like a stupid shield. The window was shut tight, curtain drawn.
He grabbed the phone again. His thumb hovered over the power button. "I'm not alone?" he whispered. "Who's here? What do you want?"
No answer. Just the faint hum of static. He turned the volume down but the whisper only grew louder in his head: Knock knock knock…
A sound behind him made him whip around — three soft taps on the wardrobe door. He'd blocked it, but the knocks came anyway.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He watched the stack of books tremble, sliding one by one to the floor like unseen hands brushed them aside.
"No…" Chris pressed his back to the wall. His breath fogged the air as if the room were a freezer. The phone slipped from his grip and hit the floor with a dull crack — screen flickering like a dying heartbeat.
Something inside the wardrobe scraped against the wood — slow, careful, testing. Chris stepped forward, grabbed the chair, tried to wedge it tighter.
The phone buzzed where it lay face down. Another message. He forced himself to flip it over.
Unknown Number: Let me out.
A creaking groan echoed from inside the wardrobe — as if the hinges were straining against something that wanted out. Chris pressed the chair harder but the door shuddered. A cold voice leaked through the thin wood: "Chris… it's so dark in here…"
He stumbled back to his bed, tripping over his own shoes. He grabbed his pillow like it could protect him. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the voice — but not enough.
The phone vibrated one last time before the screen went black. In the silence that followed, Chris could hear his own heartbeat and the soft scrape… scrape… scrape… of nails on wood.
He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for daylight — but in his gut, he knew daylight wouldn't save him anymore.
The ghost in his phone didn't care if the sun rose.
It had already found a way in.