Chris woke up to the creak of the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above his head. The phone lay beside him, screen dark, as if the midnight call and that chilling message were just another bad dream.
But the dread in his chest said otherwise. He picked up the phone, half-expecting it to feel cold, but it was warm, almost hot — like someone had held it long before he did.
He turned it over in his hands, looking for a hidden SIM slot, a sticker, anything that would explain the call. Nothing. Just the cracked back, old scratches, the faint mark where a sticker must have peeled off years ago.
He remembered the old man's rotten teeth and the way the stall vanished into the dark. His fingers hovered over the power button. Maybe he should smash the phone, throw it away, forget the whole thing.
He almost did — until his stomach growled. He was too broke to waste what little he had. He'd sell it tomorrow if he had to. Or maybe he'd find the man and demand his money back.
He tossed the phone on the desk, grabbed the last pack of crackers from his drawer, and forced them down dry.
Outside the window, the campus courtyard was quiet. A few voices drifted in from distant rooms — laughter, a TV humming somewhere. Chris told himself he was safe. That the knock he'd heard last night was nothing. That the call was a mistake.
He crawled under his blanket and closed his eyes, phone just an arm's reach away. He lay still, listening to the fan squeak and the hum of the old dorm fridge. Slowly, sleep tugged at him.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Chris's eyes snapped open. This time it was clearer — three slow, heavy knocks that made his door rattle. He held his breath. Maybe Dozie was back. Maybe he forgot his key.
He sat up, heart drumming against his ribs. "Who's there?" he called out, but his voice came out dry, like sand in his throat.
Silence.
He swung his legs off the bed, feet brushing the cold concrete floor. He glanced at the phone — the screen was still black. He stepped closer to the door and pressed his ear to the wood.
Nothing.
Chris unlocked the door and opened it a crack. The hallway was empty — dim yellow light from the single bulb at the far end barely lit the corridor. He peered left, right. No one.
He shut the door quickly, locked it twice.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
This time the sound came not from the door — but from the wall behind his bed. The same wall his pillow pressed against every night.
Chris spun around, backing away until his shoulders hit the door he'd just locked. The knocks came again — slower now, like someone tapping bone against concrete.
His phone lit up on the desk. The cracked screen glowed with a message:
Unknown Number: Open the door, Chris.
He shook his head. "No, no, no…" he whispered. He grabbed the phone and pressed every button — power, volume, back — but the message stayed.
The knocks moved — now they sounded like they were inside the room, echoing from the wardrobe.
Chris forced himself to take a step closer to the wardrobe door. He pressed his palm to it — ice cold, vibrating like something was alive inside.
The phone buzzed again. Another message:
Unknown Number: If you don't open it, I will.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the window behind him — but the window was shut tight. He felt the air shift, as if someone exhaled in his ear.
He spun around — no one. But his eyes caught something in the corner: the small mirror hanging by his study desk.
In the dim light, he saw himself — wide-eyed, breathless, clutching the phone. But behind his reflection, half-hidden in shadow, was a shape. A man's outline — too tall, shoulders hunched, head tilted as if listening to Chris's heartbeat.
He blinked. The shape was gone. He wiped a shaky hand across the glass — just his reflection again, pale and sweaty.
The phone buzzed in his palm. The screen flickered once — then a single word appeared:
Knock.
At that exact moment, the wardrobe door creaked open by itself, inch by inch, like invisible fingers pulling it from inside.
Chris stepped back, pressing himself flat against the wall, phone clutched so tight his knuckles went white.
A dry, raspy whisper slid through the dark: "Chris…"
His heart stopped. He wanted to scream for Dozie, for anyone — but the voice came again, soft and close, as if it was breathing inside his skull.
"Open the door…"
Chris bolted forward and slammed the wardrobe shut. He dragged his study chair in front of it, stacking his old textbooks like a barricade. His pulse thundered in his ears.
He stared at the phone in his hand — screen cracked, buzzing faintly like a dying heartbeat.
Outside, the hallway fell silent again. No more knocks. No more voice. Just the echo of his own shallow breathing.
But deep down, Chris knew — this phone hadn't called him by accident.
It wanted something.
And it wasn't going to stop knocking until he gave it what it wanted.