It started with a text.
At exactly 3:03 AM, Sarah's phone buzzed. She groggily reached for it, expecting a message from a friend or maybe a wrong number. But it was from her number — her own phone — and it simply read:
"Don't look behind you."
Her heart froze. She sat up in bed, staring at the screen, trying to make sense of it. The room was dark and silent, except for the ticking of the clock on her wall. Slowly, almost against her will, she turned her head.
Nothing. Just the shadows of her furniture and the faint glow of the streetlight outside.
She let out a nervous laugh and shook her head. It had to be a prank. Maybe someone cloned her number. She locked the phone and set it back on her nightstand.
But then it buzzed again.
"I said, don't look behind you."
Now panic bloomed in her chest. Her breath quickened. She clutched the phone, ready to call someone — anyone. But the screen glitched, flickered, and then… went black.
And in that moment of darkness, she heard it.
A breath. Right behind her ear.
It began on a quiet Thursday night. The kind of night where everything feels too still — no wind, no cars, not even the hum of distant conversation. Just the silence, thick and heavy.
Sarah had just moved into her new apartment, a small place on the edge of town. It wasn't much, but it was hers. She'd spent the whole day unpacking boxes, organizing shelves, and trying to make the unfamiliar space feel like home.
By the time midnight rolled around, she was exhausted. She curled up in bed, her phone charging beside her, and drifted into a light sleep.
At exactly 3:03 AM, the phone buzzed.
Still half asleep, she grabbed it. One new message. Odd — she didn't have many contacts yet. The screen read:
From: You
"Don't look behind you."
She stared at it, blinking. Confusion quickly turned to unease. She looked at the sender again — it was her own number. She double-checked. Somehow, the message had come from herself.
A chill ran down her spine.
She sat up slowly and glanced around her dark room. The only light came from the soft glow of a streetlamp outside, casting long shadows through the half-closed blinds. Everything seemed in place — the boxes in the corner, the chair by the window, the open closet door…
That's when she noticed it.
The closet. She was sure she had closed it before bed. Positive.
She got up and walked toward it, heart thudding in her chest. She peeked inside — nothing. Just clothes and a few stacked boxes.
With a nervous laugh, she shut the door again, muttering to herself. "Probably a glitch… maybe someone spoofed my number."
She climbed back into bed.
Buzz.
Another message.
"I said… don't look behind you."
She froze. Her mouth went dry. She was sitting up again, eyes wide, heart racing.
There was something different now — a presence. She felt it. Not just fear. Something was watching her. She didn't dare turn around.
The temperature in the room dropped suddenly. Her breath came out in white puffs. Her hands trembled as she held the phone. The screen flickered.
Then it happened.
The lights flickered and the power cut off. Her phone died in her hand, the screen going black. And in that pitch darkness, she heard it.
A breath. Right behind her ear.
Not wind. Not imagined.
A wet, ragged breath.
She screamed and leapt out of bed, turning on the flashlight app. Nothing. No one. But the chair by the window was no longer empty.
It was facing her now.
And on it sat something — a figure too pale, too thin, with wide eyes that reflected the light like a cat's. It smiled, slowly, showing a mouth that was too wide and too full of teeth.
The phone buzzed again.
The screen, somehow on again, lit up with a final message:
"You shouldn't have looked."
And then the light in her phone flickered out for good.
It began on a quiet Thursday night. The kind of night where everything feels too still — no wind, no cars, not even the hum of distant conversation. Just the silence, thick and heavy.
Sarah had just moved into her new apartment, a small place on the edge of town. It wasn't much, but it was hers. She'd spent the whole day unpacking boxes, organizing shelves, and trying to make the unfamiliar space feel like home.
By the time midnight rolled around, she was exhausted. She curled up in bed, her phone charging beside her, and drifted into a light sleep.
At exactly 3:03 AM, the phone buzzed.
Still half asleep, she grabbed it. One new message. Odd — she didn't have many contacts yet. The screen read:
From: You
"Don't look behind you."
She stared at it, blinking. Confusion quickly turned to unease. She looked at the sender again — it was her own number. She double-checked. Somehow, the message had come from herself.
A chill ran down her spine.
She sat up slowly and glanced around her dark room. The only light came from the soft glow of a streetlamp outside, casting long shadows through the half-closed blinds. Everything seemed in place — the boxes in the corner, the chair by the window, the open closet door…
That's when she noticed it.
The closet. She was sure she had closed it before bed. Positive.
She got up and walked toward it, heart thudding in her chest. She peeked inside — nothing. Just clothes and a few stacked boxes.
With a nervous laugh, she shut the door again, muttering to herself. "Probably a glitch… maybe someone spoofed my number."
She climbed back into bed.
Buzz.
Another message.
"I said… don't look behind you."
She froze. Her mouth went dry. She was sitting up again, eyes wide, heart racing.
There was something different now — a presence. She felt it. Not just fear. Something was watching her. She didn't dare turn around.
The temperature in the room dropped suddenly. Her breath came out in white puffs. Her hands trembled as she held the phone. The screen flickered.
Then it happened.
The lights flickered and the power cut off. Her phone died in her hand, the screen going black. And in that pitch darkness, she heard it.
A breath. Right behind her ear.
Not wind. Not imagined.
A wet, ragged breath.
She screamed and leapt out of bed, turning on the flashlight app. Nothing. No one. But the chair by the window was no longer empty.
It was facing her now.
And on it sat something — a figure too pale, too thin, with wide eyes that reflected the light like a cat's. It smiled, slowly, showing a mouth that was too wide and too full of teeth.
The phone buzzed again.
The screen, somehow on again, lit up with a final message:
"You shouldn't have looked."
And then the light in her phone flickered out for good.
It began on a quiet Thursday night. The kind of night where everything feels too still — no wind, no cars, not even the hum of distant conversation. Just the silence, thick and heavy.
Sarah had just moved into her new apartment, a small place on the edge of town. It wasn't much, but it was hers. She'd spent the whole day unpacking boxes, organizing shelves, and trying to make the unfamiliar space feel like home.
By the time midnight rolled around, she was exhausted. She curled up in bed, her phone charging beside her, and drifted into a light sleep.
At exactly 3:03 AM, the phone buzzed.
Still half asleep, she grabbed it. One new message. Odd — she didn't have many contacts yet. The screen read:
From: You
"Don't look behind you."
She stared at it, blinking. Confusion quickly turned to unease. She looked at the sender again — it was her own number. She double-checked. Somehow, the message had come from herself.
A chill ran down her spine.
She sat up slowly and glanced around her dark room. The only light came from the soft glow of a streetlamp outside, casting long shadows through the half-closed blinds. Everything seemed in place — the boxes in the corner, the chair by the window, the open closet door…
That's when she noticed it.
The closet. She was sure she had closed it before bed. Positive.
She got up and walked toward it, heart thudding in her chest. She peeked inside — nothing. Just clothes and a few stacked boxes.
With a nervous laugh, she shut the door again, muttering to herself. "Probably a glitch… maybe someone spoofed my number."
She climbed back into bed.
Buzz.
Another message.
"I said… don't look behind you."
She froze. Her mouth went dry. She was sitting up again, eyes wide, heart racing.
There was something different now — a presence. She felt it. Not just fear. Something was watching her. She didn't dare turn around.
The temperature in the room dropped suddenly. Her breath came out in white puffs. Her hands trembled as she held the phone. The screen flickered.
Then it happened.
The lights flickered and the power cut off. Her phone died in her hand, the screen going black. And in that pitch darkness, she heard it.
A breath. Right behind her ear.
Not wind. Not imagined.
A wet, ragged breath.
She screamed and leapt out of bed, turning on the flashlight app. Nothing. No one. But the chair by the window was no longer empty.
It was facing her now.
And on it sat something — a figure too pale, too thin, with wide eyes that reflected the light like a cat's. It smiled, slowly, showing a mouth that was too wide and too full of teeth.
The phone buzzed again.
The screen, somehow on again, lit up with a final message:
"You shouldn't have looked."
And then the light in her phone flickered out for good.
It began on a quiet Thursday night. The kind of night where everything feels too still — no wind, no cars, not even the hum of distant conversation. Just the silence, thick and heavy.
Sarah had just moved into her new apartment, a small place on the edge of town. It wasn't much, but it was hers. She'd spent the whole day unpacking boxes, organizing shelves, and trying to make the unfamiliar space feel like home.
By the time midnight rolled around, she was exhausted. She curled up in bed, her phone charging beside her, and drifted into a light sleep.
At exactly 3:03 AM, the phone buzzed.
Still half asleep, she grabbed it. One new message. Odd — she didn't have many contacts yet. The screen read:
From: You
"Don't look behind you."
She stared at it, blinking. Confusion quickly turned to unease. She looked at the sender again — it was her own number. She double-checked. Somehow, the message had come from herself.
A chill ran down her spine.
She sat up slowly and glanced around her dark room. The only light came from the soft glow of a streetlamp outside, casting long shadows through the half-closed blinds. Everything seemed in place — the boxes in the corner, the chair by the window, the open closet door…
That's when she noticed it.
The closet. She was sure she had closed it before bed. Positive.
She got up and walked toward it, heart thudding in her chest. She peeked inside — nothing. Just clothes and a few stacked boxes.
With a nervous laugh, she shut the door again, muttering to herself. "Probably a glitch… maybe someone spoofed my number."
She climbed back into bed.
Buzz.
Another message.
"I said… don't look behind you."
She froze. Her mouth went dry. She was sitting up again, eyes wide, heart racing.
There was something different now — a presence. She felt it. Not just fear. Something was watching her. She didn't dare turn around.
The temperature in the room dropped suddenly. Her breath came out in white puffs. Her hands trembled as she held the phone. The screen flickered.
Then it happened.
The lights flickered and the power cut off. Her phone died in her hand, the screen going black. And in that pitch darkness, she heard it.
A breath. Right behind her ear.
Not wind. Not imagined.
A wet, ragged breath.
She screamed and leapt out of bed, turning on the flashlight app. Nothing. No one. But the chair by the window was no longer empty.
It was facing her now.
And on it sat something — a figure too pale, too thin, with wide eyes that reflected the light like a cat's. It smiled, slowly, showing a mouth that was too wide and too full of teeth.
The phone buzzed again.
The screen, somehow on again, lit up with a final message:
"You shouldn't have looked."
And then the light in her phone flickered out for good.
It began on a quiet Thursday night. The kind of night where everything feels too still — no wind, no cars, not even the hum of distant conversation. Just the silence, thick and heavy.
Sarah had just moved into her new apartment, a small place on the edge of town. It wasn't much, but it was hers. She'd spent the whole day unpacking boxes, organizing shelves, and trying to make the unfamiliar space feel like home.
By the time midnight rolled around, she was exhausted. She curled up in bed, her phone charging beside her, and drifted into a light sleep.
At exactly 3:03 AM, the phone buzzed.
Still half asleep, she grabbed it. One new message. Odd — she didn't have many contacts yet. The screen read:
From: You
"Don't look behind you."
She stared at it, blinking. Confusion quickly turned to unease. She looked at the sender again — it was her own number. She double-checked. Somehow, the message had come from herself.
A chill ran down her spine.
She sat up slowly and glanced around her dark room. The only light came from the soft glow of a streetlamp outside, casting long shadows through the half-closed blinds. Everything seemed in place — the boxes in the corner, the chair by the window, the open closet door…
That's when she noticed it.
The closet. She was sure she had closed it before bed. Positive.
She got up and walked toward it, heart thudding in her chest. She peeked inside — nothing. Just clothes and a few stacked boxes.
With a nervous laugh, she shut the door again, muttering to herself. "Probably a glitch… maybe someone spoofed my number."
She climbed back into bed.
Buzz.
Another message.
"I said… don't look behind you."
She froze. Her mouth went dry. She was sitting up again, eyes wide, heart racing.
There was something different now — a presence. She felt it. Not just fear. Something was watching her. She didn't dare turn around.
The temperature in the room dropped suddenly. Her breath came out in white puffs. Her hands trembled as she held the phone. The screen flickered.
Then it happened.
The lights flickered and the power cut off. Her phone died in her hand, the screen going black. And in that pitch darkness, she heard it.
A breath. Right behind her ear.
Not wind. Not imagined.
A wet, ragged breath.
She screamed and leapt out of bed, turning on the flashlight app. Nothing. No one. But the chair by the window was no longer empty.
It was facing her now.
And on it sat something — a figure too pale, too thin, with wide eyes that reflected the light like a cat's. It smiled, slowly, showing a mouth that was too wide and too full of teeth.
The phone buzzed again.
The screen, somehow on again, lit up with a final message:
"You shouldn't have looked."
And then the light in her phone flickered out for good.