Chris didn't remember falling. He only knew the cold bite of the floor under his palms, the sharp edge of the fallen phone digging into his knee where he'd landed too hard.
The ringing had stopped. But the silence that replaced it was worse — thick, buzzing, like the static had crawled off the screen and into the walls.
The closet door gaped open — a black mouth swallowing the moonlight that spilled from the window behind him. He could see his jackets, his shoes, the dusty floorboards. Nothing else.
But he could feel something there. A breath. A shape that pressed against the inside of his ribs like it wanted to crawl out through his skin.
His phone lay face up on the floor, the cracked screen flickering. A new notification glowed through the fracture lines:
1 New Voicemail.
From: Chris.
He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But his shaking hand reached anyway. The voicemail icon pulsed under his thumb like a heartbeat — his heartbeat, dragged through glass and ghost code.
The moment he hit play, the light overhead flickered out. The closet door creaked.
And his own voice whispered into the dark.
"It's so cold in here. You promised you wouldn't shut the door again. Chris… why'd you do it?"
His breath fogged in the air, like the whole room had dropped ten degrees in a single heartbeat. He pushed himself back against the wall, forcing his eyes away from the closet.
"I didn't—" he rasped, but the message kept going, the static swallowing his words.
"I'm so hungry, Chris. I can't feel my hands. I can't feel my face. But I can feel yours. You left the door unlocked. Thank you."
He fumbled at the screen to delete the message, but his thumb slipped. Another notification blinked through the static.
New Message: I'm Here.
The screen glitched — then lit up with the front camera. His own reflection stared back at him, pale, wide-eyed, mouth half open like he'd frozen mid-scream.
Something moved behind him in the camera view. Just a shape — tall, thin, a smear of darkness stepping out of the closet. It stood at his shoulder, close enough he should feel the heat of a person. But the air burned cold instead.
RING.
He flinched. Not the phone this time — but the old, disconnected landline on his dorm desk. The one he never used. The one that wasn't even plugged in.
RING.
His reflection flickered on the phone's front cam — and for a split second, he swore it smiled back at him.
"Stop…" Chris choked out. "Stop, stop—"
The landline rang louder, sharp enough to rattle the pens off his desk. He crawled toward it on hands and knees, driven by some stupid hope that if he answered, maybe the ringing would stop, maybe the shadows would go back behind the door and seal themselves inside the dark forever.
He grabbed the dusty receiver, pressed it to his ear.
Nothing. Just a low hiss, like a breath too close to the mic.
Then his voice again — soft, sweet, like a lullaby he didn't remember learning.
"No missed calls, Chris. I'm always here when you need me."
A cold fingertip brushed the back of his neck. He flinched so hard the receiver fell from his hand, clattering to the floor. But the voice kept talking — now louder, now right behind him, though his mouth stayed shut.
"Don't hang up again. I'm not done yet."
The phone in his palm buzzed — a new notification glowing through the cracks:
New Contact Added: Chris (2)
The light flickered overhead — then everything went dark except the faint blue glow of the ghost phone in his trembling hands. In that glow, the closet door yawned wider.
And the voice that wore his name whispered, "Come in. Or I'll come out."