Chris backed away from the wall as the scratching grew louder, more frantic — claws raking at stone and plaster, digging through like paper. Dust rained down over his bed. He stumbled, nearly slipping on the cold floor. His phone buzzed again in his palm — the same cursed device that had dragged him into this nightmare.
Rrrrrr… Rrrrrr…
He glanced at the screen. Another call — same Unknown Number. His fingers trembled so badly he almost dropped it.
"Stop! Please, Jide, stop!" he choked out, voice raw. "What do you want from me?!"
A voice answered — not through the speaker, but from the widening crack in the wall.
"You know what I want, Chris."
He froze. The voice was clearer this time — wet and gurgling, as if it came through mud. The crack split wider with a sudden snap, coughing up a gust of cold, damp air that smelled like the grave.
"Come closer," the voice crooned.
Chris shook his head. "No… no, this isn't real…"
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A hand — pale, bloated, the skin torn around the nails — pushed through the crack. Fingers flexed, knuckles scraped against the concrete, leaving smears of black grime. Something dripped from its fingertips, splattering onto the mattress.
Chris clamped a hand over his mouth, trying not to scream. The phone buzzed again — vibrating so violently it slipped from his grip and skittered under the bed.
The hand pushed further out — followed by an arm, the skin stitched with black veins. A second hand forced its way through, grabbing at the edge of the broken concrete.
"Open the rest, Chris," the voice gurgled. "Let me out. Be a good friend."
Chris stumbled backward until his shoulders hit the opposite wall. "I didn't leave you! I tried to help! It was an accident, Jide— it wasn't my fault!"
But the voice laughed, a broken sound that made his vision swim. "We all know you ran, Chris. You left me to die in that wreck. Now open it."
The arm strained, tearing the crack wider. Bits of concrete rained down, the dust mixing with the smell of wet soil and rotting flesh. Behind the wall, something moved — a face half-visible in the darkness. One dead eye rolled open. It locked on Chris.
He couldn't breathe. He pressed himself tighter to the wall, his mind screaming Wake up! Wake up!
The phone buzzed again from under the bed. New message:
"HELP ME OR TAKE MY PLACE."
Chris squeezed his eyes shut. He thought of the accident — the screeching tires, Jide's blood on the windshield, the way he'd crawled free while Jide was trapped. He should have called for help. He should have stayed.
The thing behind the wall hissed, its cracked lips parting in a ragged grin. "Open it, Chris. Or come inside with me."
Chris forced himself to move. He dropped to his knees, grabbing the phone from under the bed. His thumb hovered over the screen.
There was only one option left: Destroy it — or open the wall fully. Free Jide's spirit… or let it drag him through.
The wall pulsed, splitting wider. Cold fingers snaked through the gap, reaching for his ankle.
Chris raised the phone over his head — ready to smash it on the floor — but the voice in the crack screamed: "CHRIS! IF YOU BREAK IT, YOU BREAK YOURSELF!"
He hesitated. The fingers brushed his skin — icy cold, too real.
And the ghost phone buzzed again.