Chris didn't remember falling asleep. He only remembered the taste of metal in his mouth, the chill that wrapped around him like wet cloth, and the newspaper clipping still clutched in his sweaty palm.
When he opened his eyes, the room was dark again — the bulb above flickering like a dying star. He was lying on the floor, back pressed against the wardrobe as if he'd passed out guarding it. The plastic bag was gone — but the phone lay on his chest, screen facing him like a single cracked eye.
For a moment he didn't move. Maybe it was a nightmare. Maybe he'd wake up in his mother's old flat, her soft humming from the kitchen, the smell of beans on the stove.
But the hum that filled his ears now was different — low, electric, like a distant radio whispering secrets in a language he wasn't meant to understand.
The phone vibrated once. The screen flared to life. Another message:
Unknown Number: Knock knock knock.
Chris sat up too fast, the world spinning around him. He pressed his back harder to the wardrobe door, eyes darting around the room. The door was shut tight. The window, too. The chair was back in front of the wardrobe — he didn't remember putting it there.
He checked the time — 12:00 AM exactly.
His throat went dry. Midnight again. It always started at midnight.
The phone buzzed in his hand like it wanted to crawl under his skin. Another message appeared before he could blink it away:
Unknown Number: Don't ignore it.
Then — Knock. Knock. Knock.
This time it wasn't the wardrobe. The knocks came from the door to the corridor. Heavy. Slow. Like a fist wrapped in damp cloth.
Chris shook his head. "No. No more." He stood up, legs unsteady, and crossed the room to the door. He didn't want to open it — he just wanted to make it stop.
He pressed his eye to the tiny peephole. The hallway looked empty — same flickering bulb, same cracked floor tiles. But something moved in the corner, just at the edge of the light.
A shape. Tall. Still. Watching the door.
Chris's breath fogged the peephole glass. He stepped back. The phone buzzed again.
Open it.
Chris threw the phone onto the bed. "No! Leave me alone!" He grabbed his desk chair and wedged it under the door handle. He grabbed Dozie's blanket and stuffed it into the gap at the bottom, like that would stop whatever waited on the other side.
The knocks came again — louder now. They rattled the door, made the handle twitch under the chair. Chris stumbled back until his calves hit the bed frame.
The phone's screen flashed white. A new message scrawled itself letter by letter:
Unknown Number: You can't keep me out.
Chris squeezed his eyes shut. His mind raced. He needed help — real help. His mother. The pastor near campus. Anyone.
But the only phone he had was the one that wanted him dead.
A soft laugh leaked from the phone speaker. Then the screen flickered to video mode by itself — the front camera flipped on, showing Chris's pale, terrified face. Behind him, in the mirror above his study desk, the tall shadow moved closer. Its shape twitched, head cocked sideways like it didn't fit the room's shape.
Chris spun around — nothing there. Just the mirror reflecting his horror back at him. But in the screen's corner, the figure leaned closer, as if pressing against the glass. Its voice crawled through the speaker, dry as bone dust:
"Chris… open the door."
The knocks turned into pounding — fists slamming again and again, the wood bending under the force. The chair jumped under the handle, scraping across the floor like it was alive.
Chris grabbed the phone, thumb smashing the power button over and over. The screen refused to die. The voice hissed through the crackling speaker:
"You let me in once. You will again."
He threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall, battery cover snapping open, the screen splitting further. The pounding stopped — silence fell like a heavy blanket. Chris collapsed onto the bed, chest heaving.
For a moment, he thought it was over. He closed his eyes. Just a second — just breathe.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Right next to his ear. He froze. The sound wasn't from the door. Not the wardrobe. Not the window.
It was from the phone — lying cracked and open on the floor, its speaker hissing out tiny knocks like an echo.
A new message blinked on the splintered screen:
Unknown Number: You can't run, Chris.
If you won't open the door…
I'll open it for you.
The room plunged into total darkness — the bulb overhead popped like a gunshot. Chris was alone in the dark. The only light left was the phone's sick green glow — and the faint outline of something standing in the corner, just waiting for him to open his eyes wider.