Chris hadn't slept properly in days. Every time he closed his eyes, the phone dragged him back — the screen flickering behind his eyelids, the same cursed ringtone echoing in his skull.
Tonight, he locked the phone in his desk drawer, buried it under old textbooks and clothes. He even taped the drawer shut, just to feel sane.
It didn't help.
At exactly 3:03 a.m., the ringtone screamed through the room. Muffled, but clear enough to rattle his bones.
Chris shot up from his bed, sweat dripping from his neck. He stared at the desk. The drawer trembled — thud… thud… thud… like something was trapped inside, clawing to get out.
"No… no, no, no…" he whispered, pressing his palms over his ears. But the phone didn't care. It called him.
He stumbled to the drawer, ripped the tape, and flung it open. The phone lay there, lit up — an incoming call: UNKNOWN.
Chris' fingers trembled as he picked it up. He almost threw it against the wall, but his thumb slid across the screen on its own.
He didn't even say "Hello" this time.
A voice — not the usual static, not the ghostly moan — but his own voice whispered from the other end:
"Look at the mirror, Chris."
He turned slowly. His cheap dorm room mirror leaned against the cracked wall, half-covered in stickers and dust.
"What do you want from me?" Chris hissed, his teeth chattering.
The phone crackled:
"It's not what I want. It's what you lost."
In the mirror, his reflection flickered. For a second, he saw someone else standing behind him — a girl in a school uniform, her face hidden by long, dripping hair.
Chris spun around — no one.
He turned back. The girl was in the mirror again — closer this time, right over his shoulder. A hand reached up — pale fingers brushing his neck in the reflection.
He could feel it — cold, wet.
Chris dropped the phone. It landed face-up, the call still connected.
The girl's reflection lifted her head. Her eyes were hollow, mouth sewn shut with dark thread.
She pointed to the wall behind Chris. He turned slowly, his pulse pounding in his skull.
Scratched into the plaster above his bed were three words:
"ANSWER HER CALL."
The phone on the floor buzzed — a new message blinking on the cracked screen.
[1 NEW VIDEO MESSAGE]
Chris picked it up with shaking hands. He tapped the message.
It was a video of his own dorm room, filmed from inside the closet. He could see himself, standing there, staring at the phone.
The closet door behind him creaked open in the video.
A pale hand slipped out — the same hand that touched him in the mirror.
Chris dropped the phone again and spun toward his closet — the door was ajar now, darkness swallowing the inside.
A soft voice came from within, muffled and broken:
"I'm waiting for you, Chris…"
The phone started ringing again.
Chris backed away, but the ringtone grew louder, echoing through the room like funeral bells.
The closet door opened wider.
And then — knock. knock. knock.
This time, it wasn't at the door to his room. It was coming from inside the closet.