The room fell silent after Chris's scream vanished into the wardrobe. The walls stopped trembling. The air went still, thick with the smell of damp wood and something burnt.
On the floor by the overturned chair, the phone lay cracked open, screen dead and dark — until it flickered once. Then again.
Outside the hostel, dawn broke like a sigh. Boys shuffled down the hallway, voices sleepy, doors slamming as the world carried on — no one noticing that behind Chris's door, something had shifted forever.
At exactly 7:03 AM, a boy named Tunde — a skinny first-year with headphones always dangling from his neck — stopped outside the half-open door. He frowned. He'd seen Chris before, always hunched over his phone, eyes red like he hadn't slept in weeks.
Tunde knocked on the open door. No answer. He pushed it wider, peeking inside.
"Chris?" he called softly. The room was empty — or so it seemed. The bed was a mess, clothes scattered everywhere, the wardrobe door gaping open like a mouth frozen in mid-scream.
His eyes caught the phone lying in the middle of the floor. He stepped closer. It looked old, cheap, cracked to hell — worthless, really — but something about it felt… warm. Like it wanted him to pick it up.
He crouched, earbuds swinging. Reached out. Hesitated. The air in the room felt wrong — too cold for early morning. He shivered, rubbing his arm.
His thumb brushed the phone's screen. It flickered to life instantly, casting a sick green glow on his curious face.
A faint buzz tickled his palm. He nearly dropped it — but the phone's screen pulsed softly, showing just one message:
Unknown Number: Hello?
Tunde blinked. He didn't remember unlocking it. He glanced over his shoulder — the room behind him still empty. He turned the phone over, half-expecting to see a prank sticker or something — but it was just old plastic and a cheap logo worn off at the edges.
He tapped the screen. Another message appeared, letter by letter, like someone was typing just for him:
Unknown Number: Will you answer me?
A soft knock echoed behind him. Tunde jumped, spinning toward the door — but the hallway was empty, just the chatter of hostel boys drifting up the stairwell.
The phone buzzed again, warmer in his hand now, as if it liked being held.
Unknown Number: Don't leave me here.
Let's talk.
Tunde's throat felt dry. He pressed the power button, but the phone stayed on. He turned toward the door — but before he could move, the wardrobe behind him gave a low creak.
A shape shifted inside — buried deep in the shadows of old clothes and dusty shelves. Tunde stepped back, eyes wide, but the phone buzzed louder, a soft hum that seemed to echo under his skin.
One final message scrolled across the screen:
Unknown Number: Knock knock knock.
It's your turn now.
Tunde opened his mouth to scream — but the wardrobe door swung wide, the shadows inside swallowing the dawn light.
Behind him, the phone's cracked screen glowed one last time — then winked out, waiting for its next call.