Chris didn't remember falling asleep. He only knew he woke up because something was inside his dream — a soft, hollow tapping that wouldn't stop.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
His eyes flew open to darkness. His room felt colder than outside. He stayed still, ears straining, hoping it was just the wind.
Then — there it was again. Knock. Knock. Closer this time.
His phone, dead hours ago, lay face-down on his floor. He picked it up, hand trembling. The cracked screen flickered to life without him pressing anything.
3:03 AM
Of course.
Chris's throat felt like sand. He pressed his thumb to the screen — it shouldn't even work anymore. The phone unlocked by itself, the wallpaper glitching between static and a photo he didn't remember taking — his own face, eyes wide, mouth open like it was screaming.
The knock came again — not from the window this time, but from inside the closet. Three soft raps on the old wooden door, so gentle they barely made a sound — but they were enough.
His heart rammed against his ribs. He stared at the closet door, its edges almost hidden in the shadows.
The phone buzzed in his hand. A message popped up:
"Let me out."
Chris swallowed. His mouth moved around a prayer he hadn't said in years. He squeezed the phone so tight the cracked screen cut his palm.
Another knock. Louder. More urgent.
"You promised."
The words flashed across the phone screen by themselves. He hadn't typed them. He hadn't promised anything. He couldn't breathe.
The door rattled. Once. Twice. Something inside wanted out. The handle twitched like someone was testing it.
Chris stumbled backward until his knees hit the edge of the bed. The phone buzzed again.
"Remember what you buried?"
His vision blurred. Images flooded his mind — the night he bought the phone, the junk shop owner's warning, the tiny grave he'd dug behind his old college dorm to bury what he'd found in the phone's hidden folder.
A video. A voice. His voice. Screaming for help — but not his mouth.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The closet door creaked open a few inches, darkness leaking out like ink. A whisper crawled across the room, slipping under his skin.
"Chris… it's cold in here… let me out… let me wear your face…"
He dropped the phone. It hit the floor but didn't break — it never broke. The screen stayed lit, casting a sick glow across the closet door as it slowly swung wider.
Inside — only blackness. No clothes. No shelves. Just empty space that felt too deep, too hollow for this tiny room.
Something moved in the dark — a pale hand, thin as bone, curling around the doorframe.
Chris choked on his breath. He backed up, his heel catching the edge of his desk. He grabbed the only thing in reach — a cheap metal lamp — and held it like a weapon.
The thing inside the closet laughed — his laugh, but stretched too thin, too wet.
"You can't hang up, Chris… you never did…"
The hand slid lower, revealing an arm — skin grey, veins like black threads under wax. Then a shoulder, a neck, a head that shouldn't have fit inside the tiny closet.
Its face — his face — split in a grin that cracked too wide, teeth filed to points that dripped something dark onto the carpet.
The ghost phone buzzed again on the floor, the screen flashing a single word over and over.
"ANSWER."
The thing in the closet leaned forward, its grin splitting the edges of its mouth until its cheeks tore open.
"Answer me."
Chris screamed — raw and broken — and swung the lamp at the thing's face. Metal hit skin — or what should've been skin — but his own laugh echoed back at him like it enjoyed the pain.
The phone on the floor kept ringing, the vibration rattling the floorboards.
He ran for the door, nearly tripping over the buzzing phone. But the moment his hand grabbed the doorknob, a cold touch wrapped around his ankle — the thing's fingers squeezing so hard he felt bone grind.
"Don't hang up, Chris. It's your turn to listen."