Chris didn't sleep for the rest of the night. He sat on the edge of his bed, knees pulled to his chest, eyes fixed on the wardrobe like it was a caged mouth that could open at any second.
The phone lay face down on the floor where it had fallen, silent now — no more buzzing, no more whispers. But that was worse somehow. Silence meant it was waiting.
As dawn broke, pale light spilled through the window, washing the room in a sick grey that did nothing to warm his frozen bones. He hadn't moved the chair from the wardrobe door. He hadn't picked up the books scattered across the floor. Every creak of the ceiling fan made him flinch.
When the hostel woke up — doors banging, boys laughing, showers running — Chris felt like he was behind glass, cut off from the normal world. He envied Dozie for staying away. He wanted to call him, to tell him don't come back, don't bring it with you — but the only phone he had was the one that wouldn't let him be alone.
At 8 AM, he forced himself to stand. He'd go outside. Breathe normal air. Pretend he was fine. He grabbed his backpack, avoiding the phone on the floor like it was a dead rat that might bite if he touched it wrong.
He cracked the door open, peeking into the hallway — alive with noise, footsteps, sunlight pouring through broken windows. Normal. Safe.
Chris slipped out. He didn't bother locking the door behind him. Let it stay in there. Let it rot.
He spent the morning drifting around campus like a ghost. He sat under a mango tree near the old science block, watching people come and go. Nobody noticed him. Nobody looked twice. He liked it that way.
A group of girls laughed nearby, sharing one earbud each. A boy called someone on his phone, voice bright. Chris's fingers twitched — empty pockets. He wondered if his mother had tried to call him last night. He wondered if she felt something was wrong.
By noon, his stomach twisted with hunger. He hadn't eaten since yesterday. He found a roadside vendor selling puff-puff and bought three with the last coins in his pocket. The fried dough stuck in his throat, dry and tasteless. He forced it down anyway.
When he walked back to his hostel, the sun was high, harsh and unforgiving. He told himself he'd grab his charger, maybe leave the phone plugged somewhere and never touch it again. Maybe he'd pawn it off. Maybe he'd burn it.
His room door was wide open when he reached the third floor. Chris stopped at the top of the stairs, dread seeping into his bones like cold water. He hadn't left it open that wide. He hadn't left it open at all.
He stepped inside. The chair he'd wedged against the wardrobe was on its side. The wardrobe door was open, a dark crack swallowing the pale afternoon light. The books were scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.
The phone was gone from where he'd left it. His chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.
He turned slowly — and saw it. The phone was on his desk, screen up, battery icon blinking red. A single notification pulsed on the cracked glass:
New Photo Added.
His hands shook as he picked it up. He tapped the gallery open. A new image sat at the top — timestamped just an hour ago.
He braced himself, thumb hovering over the thumbnail. He tapped it.
The picture showed him — asleep on his bed, curled under his blanket. He recognized the sweat-damp hair on his forehead, the way his hand clutched the blanket near his chin. But the angle — it was taken from above, looking straight down. There was no way it could've been shot from the floor.
In the bottom corner of the photo, half-caught by the frame, was a shadow — thin shoulders, a bent neck, a smile too wide for any human face.
Chris nearly dropped the phone. He scrolled down — more photos. One from the corridor, taken just behind his back while he'd peered into the hallway this morning. Another, of him eating puff-puff under the mango tree.
Someone had been watching him the whole time. Not someone. It.
The phone vibrated in his hand. A new message appeared, forcing itself over the photo:
Unknown Number: You can't leave me.
Chris backed away until his knees hit the bed. His legs gave out. He sat down hard, phone still buzzing.
Another message blinked on the screen:
Check the wardrobe.
He looked. The door hung open, shadows pooled at the bottom like liquid night. Something inside shifted — a slow scrape, like fingernails dragging across cheap plywood.
Chris's mouth went dry. He forced himself to stand. His steps felt heavy, like he was wading through wet sand. He reached the wardrobe, every inch of him screaming to run instead.
He pushed the door open fully.
Inside, pressed into the back corner, was a plastic bag — the same black nylon bag the phone had come in. His name was written on it now, scrawled in white chalk: Chris.
He bent down and pulled it out. The bag was heavier than he remembered. He pried it open with trembling fingers.
Inside was a newspaper clipping, yellowed and torn at the edges. The headline screamed at him in bold letters:
"UNIDENTIFIED BOY FOUND DEAD IN HOSTEL WARDROBE."
Below the headline was a blurry photo. The face was partly obscured, but Chris saw enough — the same shape of jaw, the same tired eyes. The boy looked just like him.
The phone buzzed one last time in his hand. A final message blinked through the static:
Unknown Number: Bring me back… or join me.
Chris stared at the photo, his reflection warped in the cracked screen. He knew then — the phone hadn't come to him by chance.
It was his.
It always had been.