Darkness swallowed the hallway, the flickering lights gone — replaced by a silence so thick Chris could hear his own breath scratching in his throat. He felt the chill crawl up his spine where her cold fingers had pressed against his lips.
He didn't remember falling — but he was on his knees now, the cracked dorm tiles pressing into his skin through his thin sweatpants. The phone lay beside him, screen dead, the final message burned into his mind:
"It's your turn to knock."
Knock where? On what? On who?
Chris forced himself to stand. His legs felt like they weren't his — bones hollow, skin cold as marble. He peered down the hallway, half-expecting her pale shape to crawl out of the shadows.
Nothing.
For a moment, he almost believed it was over. Just a nightmare. Just exhaustion and too much bad instant coffee.
Then the buzzing started again.
He looked down. The phone's screen stayed dark — but the buzzing rattled through the floor beneath his feet. He stepped back, heartbeat loud in his ears.
A soft, metallic knock knock knock rose from under the tiles. He crouched, pressed his ear to the floor.
A voice — muffled, distant — came from somewhere under the building, echoing through old pipes and empty vents.
"Chris… answer it."
He scrambled back, hands scraping against the wall. The wallpaper peeled away under his nails, revealing damp plaster etched with faint lines — numbers.
He squinted. A phone number, scratched over and over like a madman's chant:
+44 7…
The rest was a jagged mess. But as he stared, the numbers shifted — lines moving like worms under skin, crawling into place until they formed a full number.
His own phone number.
The dead phone in his hand buzzed again — screen still black — but it vibrated harder now, humming like a caged insect.
Chris forced himself to press the power button. The screen flickered. For a second he saw his reflection — hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, shadows behind him that didn't match his shape.
The screen flashed once, then a single message appeared in bold white text:
"Call yourself."
His throat tightened. He tried to drop the phone, but his fingers stayed locked around it. He opened the dial pad. The numbers glowed faint and sickly.
He typed the digits slowly. Each beep echoed down the hall like church bells tolling for the dead.
When he hit CALL, the phone didn't ring — instead, the dorm hallway lights flickered back to life in sick, greenish pulses. The walls seemed to breathe again, soft and spongy under the buzzing bulbs.
A voice answered immediately — his own voice, but deeper, layered with that soft wet giggle:
"Knock, knock, Chris."
He backed away, but the voice poured through the speaker, thick as fog:
"One knock for the truth…"
A heavy thud came from the dorm lobby behind him — like a fist hitting wood.
"Two knocks for her…"
Another thud — closer now. He spun around, staring at the front doors. The glass was black, too dark to see what pressed against it.
"Three knocks for you."
THUD.
The lights overhead blew out one by one, sparks raining down like burning snow. The phone slipped from Chris's hand, but the voice didn't stop — it came from the walls now, from the floor, the ceiling.
His head spun. He stumbled into the common room, the broken TV flickering static. On the screen, he saw his own dorm room door — closed now. Something inside the room moved, shifting behind the door like a restless animal.
He felt it — the urge to go back upstairs, to open that door, to finish what the ghost wanted.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The phone — lying on the floor — screamed again. He didn't pick it up. He couldn't. He backed away, eyes wide.
The TV screen changed — it showed a new video. Grainy, black and white. Himself, standing outside his own door, lifting a hand.
Knocking.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Inside the TV, the door opened. The girl stepped out — hair dripping, lips ripped open, eyes locked on him.
In the real hallway, the dorm door upstairs slammed open on its own — the sound echoed down like a gunshot.
Then, from the stairwell above — her voice. Soft. Wet. Closer than ever:
"Chris… your turn."
He bolted. He ran for the front doors — but they slammed shut with a gust of hot, rancid wind. He turned for the back exit — same thing. The locks clicked on their own.
Trapped.
He stumbled back to the phone. It lay face down, still buzzing. He picked it up.
The screen showed one word:
"KNOCK."
Chris knew he couldn't escape. He turned slowly toward the stairs. Every step felt like he was wading through mud. Each footfall echoed the voice in his head:
Knock for the truth. Knock for her. Knock for you.
He reached his room door. It stood open now, the darkness inside pulsing like a heartbeat.
He lifted his hand.
He knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Inside the dark, something moved — something cold, wet, and waiting.