Chris thought he'd seen the worst of it — the messages that typed themselves at 3 AM, the photo that wasn't in his gallery but showed him sleeping in his own bed. The stranger's voice whispering his name through the speaker when no number showed up on the screen.
But tonight, the phone didn't just ring.
It called him back.
He'd smashed the screen that morning — watched the glass crack under his fist until blood smeared across the spiderweb fractures. He'd dropped it in the dorm trash, thrown an old T-shirt over it like that could bury the thing for good.
But here it was, vibrating on his desk like it never left.
No cracks. No blood. Just a soft blue glow pulsing through the dark room.
RING.
The sound was wrong. Not the standard ringtone — this one was wet, sticky, like something dripping down old pipes. Chris froze, staring at the name that wasn't a name at all.
[UNKNOWN CALLER]
He almost laughed. Almost. But the sound stuck in his throat when he remembered the message from the night before — DON'T ANSWER THE SECOND TIME.
The phone went silent.
One heartbeat. Two.
RING.
He flinched so hard the chair creaked under him. He should run. Smash it again. Drop it out the window. But his hand moved on its own, fingers trembling as they hovered over the green icon.
Something about the glow felt warm, familiar — like a voice calling his name in a dream he didn't want to wake up from.
His thumb pressed accept.
Static crackled through the speaker — sharp enough to make his teeth ache.
Then a voice. His voice.
"Chris."
He felt the blood drain from his face. "Who is this?"
The voice laughed — a broken echo of his own laugh, twisted and cracked, like someone had dragged it out of his throat while he slept.
"Why did you hang up the first time?" it asked softly. "Why did you leave me there?"
Chris swallowed. His eyes darted to the door — locked. His roommate's bed — empty. The windows — rattling softly though there was no wind.
"What do you want?" he whispered. The phone felt warm now, almost burning his palm.
The voice on the other end sighed. His sigh. "To come back. You promised you'd bring me back."
Chris didn't remember any promise. He didn't remember the dark space between the first time he answered and the dreams that kept him awake since.
A soft tap tap tap echoed from his closet door. Three knocks. Slow. Patient. The same pattern he'd started to hear in his sleep.
"You're not real," he hissed into the phone. "You're just —"
The voice cut him off, angry now. "Open the door."
Chris squeezed his eyes shut. "No."
A cold laugh. "Then I'll open it for you."
Before he could drop the phone, something shifted behind the closet door — the handle rattled once. Twice. Then silence.
Chris's breath caught when he realized the phone wasn't in his hand anymore. He was still holding it — but now it was pressed against his ear and vibrating on the desk at the same time. Two screens. Two calls. Both showing his name. Both ringing.
RING.
RING.
He backed up, bumping the wall. The closet door swung open with a soft creak.
Nothing but shadows inside — until his own voice whispered back at him from the darkness.
"Chris… let me out."
The phone fell from his hand, shattering the silence as it hit the floor — still ringing, still warm, still calling him back.