Chris sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the cracked screen of the secondhand phone that had turned his life into a waking nightmare. The room was cold, too cold for a humid night like this, and the shadows on the walls seemed to crawl closer every time he blinked.
The phone buzzed in his hand — not a normal vibration, but a low, sickening hum that made his teeth ache. He didn't want to look. He didn't want to answer. But he knew he would.
He always did.
Unknown Number Calling…
His thumb hovered over the screen, but before he could reject it, the call connected itself. A hiss of static filled the room, so loud it drowned out the hum of his old ceiling fan.
"Hello?" Chris whispered, voice trembling. "Who's there?"
No answer. Just the static — then a faint, rasping breath. Like someone was inches from the mic, breathing straight into his ear.
"Chris…"
The voice was distant, muffled, but unmistakably familiar. His chest tightened. He knew that voice. It belonged to his roommate, Jide — the same Jide they'd buried two weeks ago after the accident. The same Jide who should be six feet under, not calling him at midnight.
"Jide? This isn't funny. Stop it!" Chris hissed, pressing the phone to his ear, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would crack his ribs.
The static shifted, warping into a soft chuckle that made his skin crawl. "You left me… You shouldn't have run, Chris."
"I didn't run! I—I tried to help—" His breath caught when the line crackled, drowning out his voice.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He froze. The sound was no longer in the phone — it was coming from inside his room. Three slow knocks, like knuckles tapping the wall behind his bed.
Chris turned, his eyes wide. The wall was bare concrete, but the knocks came again — louder, clearer.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He stumbled to his feet, the phone slipping from his hand and hitting the floor with a soft thud. The call was still active. From the speaker, Jide's laugh echoed — a broken, hollow sound that didn't belong to the friend he once knew.
"Chris… open it…"
"Open what?" Chris whispered, pressing his back to the opposite wall.
The knocks turned into scratching. Nails — long, ragged — scraping at the concrete. Dust drifted to the floor as a hairline crack split the wall where his bed had been pressed against it.
Chris couldn't move. His feet felt rooted to the spot, cold sweat running down his spine.
On the floor, the phone's screen flickered. The call ended. A new message appeared, glowing in the dim room.
"LET ME OUT."
Chris's throat closed up. He dropped to his knees, reaching for the phone with shaking hands.
"No… no, no, no—"
The crack in the wall widened with a sudden, sickening snap. Cold air poured out, smelling of damp earth and something sour, rotten. The scratching stopped. For a heartbeat, the room was silent.
Then — a whisper. Right behind his ear.
"Chris…"
He spun around, but there was nothing — just the cracked wall and the echo of Jide's voice. The phone buzzed again, vibrating so violently it rattled across the floor.
A final message flashed on the screen.
"IF YOU DON'T OPEN IT, I'LL COME FOR YOU."
Chris pressed his fist to his mouth, fighting the scream rising in his throat. The scratching started again — but this time, it was louder. Closer. As if something was crawling through the wall, dragging itself toward him.
And the ghost phone, that cursed piece of plastic and wires, hummed like it was laughing at him.