Ethan Carter’s phone buzzed at exactly 3:07 AM.
Half-asleep, he groggily reached for it, expecting another late-night notification. Instead, a single message glowed on his screen:
“Don’t turn around.”
His pulse spiked. The sender was an unknown number. The room was silent except for the hum of his bedside clock.
He glanced over his shoulder—nothing but the dim outline of his desk and chair. Just a prank, he thought. He turned off the phone and rolled over.
A minute later, another buzz.
“I said, don’t turn around.”
Ethan sat up, his breath hitching. His curtains were drawn, the door still locked. He checked his phone again. No signal.
A third message appeared.
“I see you.”
The sheets felt ice-cold as fear settled in. He grabbed the lamp and switched it on. The room flooded with light—empty. Heart pounding, he typed back:
“Who is this?”
The reply was instant.
“Check under your bed.”
For a long moment, Ethan didn’t move. Then, forcing himself to breathe, he slowly leaned over the edge.
There was nothing.
Relief washed over him—until his phone vibrated one last time.
“Wrong bed.”
Ethan froze. There was only one bed in his room.
A whisper brushed against his ear.
The light flickered out.
