Darkness swallowed Chris before he could scream. Cold hands clamped around his wrist and shoulder, dragging him backward into the narrow space behind his old clothes and dusty books.
It felt endless inside — not the cramped wardrobe he'd known. The air was damp, heavy, humming with a sound like radio static under his skin. He twisted, kicked, but the grip only tightened, icy nails biting deep into his flesh.
Behind him, the phone's glow blinked like a dying firefly, the only thing keeping him tethered to the room he was leaving behind. He reached for it, fingers brushing empty air — and then it was gone, swallowed by the wardrobe door as it slammed shut behind him with a deafening final thud.
Chris screamed. His voice bounced off the tight wooden walls, then melted into the thick dark that tasted like wet soil and rust. He pushed back, slamming his shoulder into the back panel — but it bent like soft leather, giving way to more darkness.
He stumbled forward, arms out. The floor under his feet was no longer wooden — it was cold, damp earth. He smelled mold, old clothes, something burnt. The darkness felt alive, breathing with him, matching his heartbeat beat for beat.
Somewhere ahead, a faint light pulsed — green, sickly, blinking in and out like a heartbeat out of rhythm. He stumbled toward it, feet sinking into mud that sucked at his shoes.
As he moved, whispers flickered through the dark — voices layered over each other like a broken choir. He heard his own name again and again, spoken by a hundred mouths that sounded like his own.
"Chris… Chris… you shouldn't have answered… you shouldn't have bought me…"
He covered his ears, but the voices slid under his palms, curling into his skull like cold worms. The light ahead grew brighter — now he could see it was the phone. It floated in the dark, cracked screen flickering with static.
He reached out, desperate. Maybe if he smashed it here, this nightmare would break. Maybe he'd wake up in bed, sweat-soaked but alive.
His fingers brushed the screen — the cold was unbearable, like pressing his hand to ice that bit back. The phone flared white, and an image appeared:
Him. Standing exactly where he stood now. But behind his reflection, a shape towered — tall, head cocked sideways, teeth too many for any human mouth.
It pressed a hand to his shoulder in the reflection. Chris spun around — nothing. The darkness swallowed everything beyond the weak glow of the phone.
Then a voice rasped in his ear — so close he felt its icy breath:
"You brought me here. Now stay with me."
Chris stumbled back, phone clutched to his chest. The mud clung to his shoes, pulling him down, as if the floor itself wanted to drag him under. He forced his legs to move, pushing deeper into the black. Each step felt heavier — the air thick like wet cloth stuffed down his throat.
Ahead, a door shimmered out of the dark. An old wooden door, same peeling paint as his hostel room. He ran for it, slamming his palm on the handle. It opened with a long, sick creak — but behind it was not his hostel.
It was the same tiny wardrobe — except it stretched endlessly, rows of hanging clothes turning into torn shrouds dripping with old blood. Shapes hung among them — shadows of people, faces blurred, necks bent at impossible angles.
They turned slowly, as if they'd been waiting forever. Their eyes glowed faint green in the pitch dark. One stepped forward — its skin peeled and grey, its mouth hanging open too wide.
Chris stumbled back, slipping in the mud. The phone buzzed in his palm, screen flickering with a final message:
Unknown Number: There's no outside now.
Hands grabbed him from the dark — dozens of them, cold and soft, pulling him down into the thick wet soil. His scream stuck in his throat as the wardrobe walls closed in, pressing tighter and tighter until all he could hear was the heartbeat hum of the ghost phone clutched to his chest.
Above him, a faint knock echoed — soft at first, then louder, pounding like a fist against a coffin lid.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The last thing he saw before the dark swallowed him whole was his own face reflected in the cracked screen — eyes wide, mouth open, and a shadow smiling over his shoulder.