Tunde's scream caught in his throat, trapped somewhere between fear and disbelief. The wardrobe door hung wide open, but inside was no longer just clothes and dusty shelves — it was a yawning black mouth, the air around it colder than the hostel hallway behind him.
He stumbled back, almost tripping over Chris's scattered books. The phone in his hand buzzed harder, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own. Its cracked screen flickered on again — no password, no lock. Just a single pulsing message waiting for him.
Unknown Number: Don't be scared.
Tunde's mouth was dry. He backed toward the door, eyes darting from the wardrobe's black hollow to the phone's sick green glow. He should drop it — he wanted to drop it — but his fingers wouldn't obey. It was like the plastic and glass had melted into his skin.
It's just a phone, he told himself. Just a stupid secondhand phone.
But the room felt wrong — like someone else was there, breathing beside him, even though he couldn't see them.
He forced himself to glance into the wardrobe again. Something shifted inside — a faint shape at the back, a glimpse of a hand that wasn't quite a hand. Long fingers, bent in too many places. A grin that floated in the dark with no face to hold it.
The phone vibrated once more, the screen bright enough to light up his pale, sweaty face.
Unknown Number: Chris is waiting.
Tunde's heart slammed against his ribs. Chris?
He glanced at the floor where the bed used to be — empty, no sign of Chris, just his scattered textbooks and an old blanket balled up near the chair.
"Chris?" His own voice cracked. "Bro? You there?"
No answer. Just the low hum of static leaking from the wardrobe's throat. The phone's screen flickered — the cracked glass splintered the glow into strange shapes that danced across the floor.
A video started playing by itself — shaky footage of the inside of the wardrobe. At first, Tunde thought it was live, but then he saw the blurry shape crouched inside — a boy, knees pulled tight to his chest, head buried in his arms.
Chris.
Tunde squinted closer. On the video, Chris slowly lifted his face — and Tunde's breath caught when he saw the eyes. Hollow. Black. Like someone had scooped the light out of them and left only an echo behind.
Chris's cracked lips moved. The phone's speaker hissed — and then a voice, dry and scraping, crawled out:
"Help me."
Tunde's knees buckled. He pressed his back to the door, praying someone would come down the hall and find him. But the corridor outside had gone silent, like the whole hostel was holding its breath.
He looked back at the wardrobe. The shadows inside shifted — something brushing along the old coats and boxes. A soft knock echoed from deep inside:
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The phone buzzed again, hotter now in his sweaty palm. Another message:
Unknown Number: Just one knock back.
Tunde's breath caught in his throat. No. No way. He shook his head. His thumb hovered over the power button. He pressed it — but the phone stayed on. The glow pulsed, brighter now, as if it was breathing with him.
He could smell it now — the faint rot of old wood, mold, and something sweet underneath it, like burnt sugar.
The wardrobe whispered again. A voice that wasn't Chris's, but something older, deeper:
"Let me see you, Tunde…"
His feet moved on their own — a slow step closer to the open wardrobe. The darkness inside seemed to reach for him, breathing him in. The phone's message blinked one more time:
Unknown Number: Knock.
Tunde's knuckles hovered just above the wardrobe's wooden frame. He didn't want to do it — but the cold coiling around his wrist made his skin crawl, pulling his hand forward.
One knock. Just one. Maybe it would shut it up. Maybe it would free Chris. Maybe—
He knocked.
Once.
Silence swallowed the room. The phone in his palm went dead — but the shadows inside the wardrobe roared awake. A shape lunged from the dark, too fast, too long, wrapping cold fingers around his wrist, dragging him forward.
Tunde tried to scream — but the dark poured into his mouth like cold water. The last thing he heard was the phone, buzzing back to life in his palm:
Unknown Number: Welcome, Tunde.