The message arrived at 2:17 a.m.
I noticed it only because I was still awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks that looked like unfinished stories. My phone vibrated once—soft, careful, like it didn't want to wake anyone else.
Unknown Number:
You shouldn't have ignored the door.
My heartbeat skipped.
I lived alone. No roommates. No visitors. And no one had knocked on my door that night.
I typed back.
Me: Who is this?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Unknown Number:
You really don't remember, do you?
I sat up in bed. The room felt colder suddenly, like the walls were listening. I checked the time again—2:18 a.m.
I tried to convince myself it was a prank. A wrong number. Someone bored.
But then another message came.
Unknown Number:
Look at your right hand.
My phone slipped from my fingers.
Slowly, unwillingly, I lifted my right hand. There was a thin red scratch across my palm. Fresh. I hadn't noticed it before.
My mouth went dry.
Me:
How do you know that?
This time the reply came instantly.
Unknown Number:
Because you made it.
I didn't sleep after that.
Morning light crept into the room, soft and innocent, pretending the night hadn't happened. I checked my call logs, messages, contacts—nothing. The conversation was gone.
Deleted.
Or never there.
At work, I tried to act normal. Coffee tasted bitter. People's voices felt distant, like they were speaking from underwater. I kept replaying the messages in my head.
You shouldn't have ignored the door.
I lived on the third floor of an old apartment building. No security camera. No doorman. Just a narrow hallway and doors that all looked the same.
During lunch, I checked my phone again.
A new message.
Unknown Number:
You locked it this time. Good.
My hands started shaking.
Me:
What do you want?
Several seconds passed.
Unknown Number:
I want you to remember.
That evening, I stood in front of my apartment door longer than usual. I checked the lock twice before going in. Everything looked normal. Too normal.
Inside, I noticed something I was sure hadn't been there before.
A small notebook on the kitchen table.
Black cover. No title.
I opened it.
The handwriting inside was mine.
Page after page, written in a rushed, uneven script.
Day 1: I think I'm losing time.
Day 3: Found bruises. Don't remember getting them.
Day 6: He says he's helping me.
Day 9: If you're reading this, don't trust the messages.
My chest tightened.
Who was he?
The last page was dated yesterday.
I heard the door last night. I didn't answer. That was a mistake.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown Number:
You found it.
I sank into a chair.
Me:
Who are you?
For the first time, the reply took longer.
Unknown Number:
I'm the part of you that survives.
The messages continued over the next few days.
They told me things I couldn't explain—where I'd hidden my spare key, the name of my childhood dog, the scar on my left knee from when I was ten. Things no stranger could know.
Things I should know.
But the notebook told a different story.
It warned me. Over and over.
Don't trust him.
He lies.
He wants control.
I started recording myself at night. Just my phone camera, pointed at the bed.
The first night, nothing happened.
The second night, I saw myself sit up at 2:17 a.m.
I watched the video with my breath stuck in my throat as the version of me on the screen stood up, walked out of the room, and turned off the camera.
I didn't remember any of it.
That night, I didn't wait.
At 2:16 a.m., I stood by the door, phone in hand.
2:17.
A knock.
Soft. Slow. Familiar.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
Don't open it.
I stared at the door.
Another knock.
Unknown Number:
If you open it, you'll forget again.
Me:
Forget what?
A pause.
Then the longest message yet.
Unknown Number:
That you asked me to take over when you couldn't live with what you did.
My vision blurred.
Me:
What did I do?
The knocking stopped.
Unknown Number:
You killed her.
The room felt like it was closing in.
Images flooded my mind—flashes, incomplete but sharp. A woman's voice. An argument. A push. Stairs.
Silence.
I slid down against the door, shaking.
Me:
Why can't I remember?
Unknown Number:
Because you begged me not to let you.
The police report was hidden behind the sink. I found it the next morning, folded and yellowed.
Case closed. Accidental fall. No further investigation.
Her name was Elena.
My name was signed at the bottom.
I threw up in the sink.
The notebook made sense now. The messages. The missing time.
I had broken myself to survive.
That night, the messages stopped.
No vibration. No unknown number.
For the first time in weeks, I slept through the night.
Months passed.
Therapy helped. Sort of. I learned to live with fragments instead of a full picture. Some days were easier. Some days felt like walking on broken glass.
One evening, as I was leaving my apartment, I noticed a new scratch on my right hand.
Fresh.
My phone buzzed in unknown Number
You're slipping again.
I closed my eyes.
Me: Are you real?
The reply came slowly, carefully.
Unknown Number:
I'm as real as you need me to be.
I looked at the door.
For a moment, I considered smashing the phone. Ending it. Facing everything.
Instead, I typed back.
Me: help me forget. Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Finally—
Unknown Number:
Okay.
The screen went dark and somewhere deep inside my mind, a door quietly closed.