Chris's scream died in his throat as the cold fingers tightened around his ankle, nails biting into his skin. He kicked wildly, metal lamp clattering to the floor. The thing in the closet pulled — slow, deliberate — dragging him back inch by inch across the rough carpet.
"Don't hang up, Chris. Don't run."
Its voice buzzed like static over an old radio — sometimes his own voice, sometimes something older, something deeper.
Chris clawed at the doorframe, fingernails splitting against the wood. He could feel warm blood trickling from his ankle where the thing's grip dug into muscle.
The ghost phone on the floor flickered with blue light. It buzzed louder than it should, the screen glitching with warped letters.
YOU PROMISED TO LISTEN.
Chris kicked again, his heel connecting with something soft and rotting. The grip loosened just enough for him to scramble free. He slammed the closet door shut — but the handle jerked against his palm like someone pulling from the other side.
"Answer me, Chris… answer me… answer me…"
He backed away, chest heaving, eyes locked on the door as it rattled — soft at first, then harder, until the hinges squealed.
The phone buzzed again. He snatched it up — a reflex he instantly regretted. The screen lit up with a new number: -666-666-6666
It shouldn't exist. But then again, nothing about this phone should.
He pressed decline — but the call connected anyway. A hiss filled his ear, so loud it felt like needles stabbing his brain.
"Do you remember the first thing you killed?" the voice whispered. It wasn't just his voice anymore — it was layered with others. Old, young, male, female, all whispering in perfect unison.
Chris stumbled backward until he hit his desk. He knocked over books, pens scattering across the floor.
"I didn't kill anyone!" he gasped. "I didn't—"
"You buried me under dirt and cheap lies."
The closet door flew open with a crash. Darkness spilled out like smoke, curling across the floor, creeping up the walls. In the middle of that black fog, two eyes glowed — his eyes, but hollow, bottomless.
Chris's mind skidded back — to the night behind the dorm, digging in the rain, burying that SIM card the old man in the shop warned him to destroy.
"You thought it would die if you buried it. But secrets grow roots, Chris. Secrets bloom."
The eyes blinked — slow, deliberate — and the shape crawled forward on all fours. Its grin dripped something thick and dark onto the carpet.
Chris threw the phone at it. The screen hit the thing's head — but instead of bouncing away, it sank into the shape's face like soft mud. The phone's screen glowed inside its skull now — flickering numbers dancing behind its hollow eyes.
"See? We're together now. One signal. One voice."
The thing lunged. Chris scrambled sideways, crashing into the desk chair. He grabbed the lamp again, swinging wildly — but the thing moved like liquid shadow, slipping past metal and wrapping long, cold arms around his shoulders.
He felt its breath on his ear — cold static that smelled like wet earth and old metal.
"Listen, Chris. Listen to the ringing."
His ears filled with the sound of a dial tone that shouldn't exist. It burrowed into his skull, scraping at his thoughts, pushing out everything else — memories, fears, his name. The world shrank until there was only the static and the whisper:
"Answer me."
His vision blurred. His knees buckled. He collapsed to the floor, the thing pressing him down, its grin inches from his face.
Through the haze, he heard another sound — faint, impossible.
A ringtone. Not the ghost phone's. His real phone, buried in his desk drawer. He hadn't used it in weeks.
The thing froze — its grin twisting. The eyes flicked toward the drawer, then back to him.
"You can't hang up, Chris. Not until you answer me."
But the ringtone kept buzzing — clear, normal, a lifeline in the static.
Chris's fingers twitched. He forced his arm to move, inching toward the drawer handle even as the thing's weight pinned him down.
"Don't answer them. Only me. Only me, Chris…"
The thing's mouth split wider — a cavern of black static — but Chris's fingers hooked the drawer. He yanked it open, grabbed the old phone, and answered without looking.
"Hello?!" he gasped, voice hoarse.
For a moment — blissful, silent — the static cut out. The closet shape flickered like a dying signal.
On the line, a voice — real, warm, human. His best friend, Mark.
"Chris? Man, you okay? You sound—" The voice cracked, distant. "You sound like you're underwater—"
Chris clung to the voice like a rope. "Mark! Help me! It's— it's here— it won't—"
"Hang up, Chris."
The thing lunged, mouth unhinging. The ghost phone's glow flickered back to life behind its eyes, screaming in every voice it had stolen.
Chris squeezed the real phone to his ear, eyes wide, blood pounding in his temples.
"Mark! Don't hang up! Please— don't hang up—"
And the thing screamed, a sound that shorted out every light bulb in the room.