Chris didn't know how long he sat there on the top stair, pressed against the cracked wall. He could hear his own blood thumping in his ears — but underneath it, he heard her.
The soft giggle. The drag of something wet across concrete. A whisper like nails scraping glass.
He forced himself to stand. His knees cracked. The phone pulsed hot in his palm — a heartbeat that wasn't his.
"This isn't real," he muttered, though the lie tasted sour. He tried to throw the phone down the stairwell — but his hand wouldn't let go. It clung to him like it had roots in his bones.
He stumbled down the steps, half-blind. The hallway below was worse — shadows bled out from every corner, long and thick like black oil. The walls seemed to breathe.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The phone glowed — UNKNOWN CALLER again. The sound bounced off the peeling walls, echoing louder than it should. Every door he passed was locked tight, light seeping through cracks, but no one opened up. They never did.
He turned the corner to the ground floor and froze.
The common room door swung open on its own. A single fluorescent light flickered inside — sputtering like it was choking on bugs.
Chris stepped closer, each footstep sticky on the old tile. He peered in.
The couches were torn, old magazines scattered like wilted flowers. The TV was on — static hissing. But the screen wasn't empty.
It showed him — standing exactly where he stood now. But behind the Chris on the TV was the girl, half-visible in the static, head tilted, eyes like rotten milk.
She raised a finger and drew a line across his throat on the screen.
Chris staggered back — but the phone forced itself to his ear. He didn't press accept — the call just answered on its own.
This time the voice was clear, sharp, no more static:
"You brought me here. You can't hide now."
Chris squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his free hand over his other ear as if that would block her out.
"Why? What do you want from me?"
The voice hummed. Like a child singing to a broken doll.
"I want to come back. Open the door."
"What door?!" he gasped.
The TV flickered again. The camera angle changed — it showed his dorm room door. His bed. His closet — wide open. Inside, darkness breathed like a sleeping lung.
The image zoomed in until all he could see was the closet's pitch black. Then, two pale eyes blinked open inside that dark.
The TV exploded in a burst of static. Sparks rained onto the stained carpet.
Chris dropped the phone — but the ringing didn't stop. It came from inside the walls now — from the pipes, the light fittings, the broken air vent above his head.
He stumbled back into the hallway. The shadows on the walls moved — they twisted, bent, formed shapes. Fingers. Hair. A stitched mouth opening and closing.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He turned toward the noise. It was no longer at his closet. It was at the main entrance of the dorm building — the heavy double doors that no one used at night.
He stepped closer, each breath tasting like rust. The knock came again — louder, like fists pounding wood underwater.
Chris reached for the handle. His hand shook so badly he missed it twice.
RING.
This time, the ringtone didn't come from the phone — it came from the other side of the door.
He pressed his ear to the cold wood. He shouldn't have — but he did.
Through the thick door, her voice crawled into him like worms under skin:
"Chris… I'm cold. Let me in."
His fingers hovered on the lock. He wanted to run — but his bones felt rooted in place.
The phone, lying by his feet, buzzed once. A new message:
"Open. Or I'll come through the walls."
Chris stared at the door handle. He knew — deep inside — if he turned it, there would be no going back.
But behind him, the hallway groaned, the walls pulsing as if a thousand fingers pressed through the plaster, clawing to find a crack.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
And slowly, the lock turned under his trembling hand.