Chris stood frozen, one foot pressed against the cold floor, the other half-raised as if he could run. But where would he run to? The closet door yawned open wider, the darkness inside so thick it felt alive — breathing.
He heard the soft knock knock knock again — but this time it came with a voice. A girl's voice, soft and dripping like wet hair.
"Chris… come inside. Help me out…"
He wanted to scream but his throat locked. His heart banged so hard against his ribs it felt like it would crack open. The phone, still on the floor, glowed bright — the same video still playing in a loop: himself, standing there, the closet door behind him, the pale hand stretching out.
"This is not real," Chris whispered. But the chill crawling up his back told him otherwise.
He stepped backward — once, twice — careful not to take his eyes off the closet. His heel hit the desk behind him, and something tumbled — his old alarm clock crashed to the floor, its batteries rolling away. The sudden noise broke the silence.
The knocking stopped.
For one breath, Chris felt the room was his again. Just four dirty walls, a creaky bed, stale air.
Then — scratch, scratch, scratch.
A fingernail dragging along the inside of the closet door. He could hear the wood splintering. Slow. Deliberate.
Chris glanced at the phone. The screen changed: a new message.
"I SEE YOU."
He flinched as the closet door swung fully open with a soft groan. Inside was just darkness — but something moved at the bottom. A shape, crouched low, pale knees folded up under a grey school skirt.
Hair covered the girl's face, hanging like a curtain of wet weeds. He could hear her breathing — short, shaky, but almost calm.
"Please…" Chris begged, but he didn't know who he was begging. God? The ghost? Himself?
The girl lifted her head. Through the curtain of hair, he saw her eyes — not black, not white, but a sick, milky grey like drowned glass.
She lifted a finger, crooked and thin, and beckoned him closer.
Chris shook his head. He stumbled backward toward the door, fumbling for the knob behind him without looking. His fingers slipped on the cheap metal — sweat made him clumsy.
The ghost girl crawled forward — one hand on the closet floor, the other dragging behind like it was broken. Her nails clicked on the wood. She moved so slowly, but each push brought her closer.
The phone buzzed violently on the floor. Chris tore his eyes away from her and looked at the screen.
INCOMING CALL: UNKNOWN
It answered itself.
A voice — his own voice again — whispered from the speaker:
"If you run now… she'll follow you forever."
The girl's head jerked up. Her stitched mouth cracked open — threads snapping like rotten string. A soft wet laugh bubbled out, like a child gurgling bathwater.
Chris screamed. He found the door handle, twisted it so hard he nearly ripped it out. He flung the door open and bolted into the hallway.
He didn't stop to put on shoes. He didn't even grab the phone — it clattered after him, ringing, ringing, ringing.
He sprinted down the dim dorm hallway. Every bulb flickered, buzzing overhead like dying flies. Doors lined each side — but he knew if he knocked for help, no one would come. Not now. Not with that thing behind him.
He could hear the wet slap of feet on the floor behind him — soft, sticky, like bare feet dragging across a flooded basement.
"Chris…" The whisper was so close it felt like breath on his ear.
He turned a corner, nearly slipped, grabbed the railing to keep from falling down the stairwell. He looked back — empty hallway. No ghost. No girl. Just the buzzing lights.
He collapsed on the top stair, gasping for breath. His heart felt like it wanted out of his chest.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
He looked down. The phone was in his hand. He didn't remember picking it up.
On the screen — a new message:
"DON'T RUN. ANSWER HER."
The hallway lights flickered and died — the stairwell dropped into blackness. He heard it again — the wet feet slapping up the stairs behind him.
Chris curled into himself, the phone pressed to his chest like a shield. The ringtone drilled into his ears.
Somewhere in the dark, her voice giggled — broken, childlike, hungry.
"Answer me, Chris… or I'll crawl inside you."