It started as a joke. One of those late-night Reddit dares passed around in sleep-deprived group chats.
> “Text this number at 3:17 AM with the message: I’m awake. Come talk. But only if you’re alone. And only if you don’t plan to sleep again.”
Ira was alone.
And sleepless.
The walls of her new flat still smelled of someone else’s life — cheap paint, mothballs, and lemon-scented floor cleaner. It was her first week living alone after years of roommates, and her nerves were louder than the ceiling fan.
So she sent it.
> I’m awake. Come talk.
To a number saved in her phone as a draft contact — no name, just “+831-17-0317.” It had circulated before in horror forums: a cursed number. Urban legend, obviously.
She pressed send. The message delivered. She chuckled to herself and tossed the phone aside.
But five minutes later, it buzzed.
> Unknown: Thank you. I’ve been waiting.
Her smile froze.
And then another message followed.
> You still make that nervous laugh. The one with the hiccup at the end.
She stared.
Her heart lurched. That was something no one else knew. Something her mother used to point out when Ira was a child.
She replied instinctively:
> Who is this?
A photo came through.
Blurry. Dimly lit.
It was her bedroom — that night — taken from inside her closet.
---
At first, she convinced herself it was a prank. Someone must’ve gotten her number. Maybe she’d been hacked. But when she checked her contacts, her call log, even Telegram—nothing. The number didn’t exist in any reverse search.
The next night, she didn’t sleep.
She kept her lights on, locked her closet, sat curled on the bed with a knife tucked under her pillow.
Still, at 3:17 AM, the phone buzzed.
> You forgot how to cry quietly, Ira. But I remember.
She wanted to throw the phone, but her limbs were heavy, cold.
Her mirror — the one across her room — fogged up from inside.
And a word appeared, written backwards:
> I’m here.
---
The next day, she called her friend Vihaan.
“I think someone’s watching me,” she said.
He drove over, examined the closet, the windows. Nothing. Just dust and shadows.
“Look, I won’t lie,” he said. “That number you texted… people have talked about it online. But no one really knows what it is. Some say it’s a dead SIM. Others say it’s a gateway.”
“A gateway to what?”
“Not where. Who.”
---
He stayed the night, half-joking, half-worried.
At 3:17 AM, the phone buzzed again.
Vihaan read it aloud:
> Would you die for her?
“What the f—” he began, but stopped. His nose began to bleed.
Then both ears.
Then he dropped.
By the time Ira crawled to him, screaming, Vihaan’s body was ice-cold, his face twisted as if mid-sentence.
But there was no sign of struggle. No wound.
Just her phone screen flashing:
> Thank you. One gone.
Two more before I stay.
---
Ira went to the police.
They took her phone. She waited three hours.
Then they returned it, saying it was clean.
But when she checked the screen:
> They didn’t see me. But I saw them.
You should’ve kept your eyes closed, Ira.
She stopped sleeping after that.
Every night at 3:17 AM, it would buzz.
And each time, she would lose something:
The sound of her own laugh.
The memory of her father’s face.
The feel of her favorite song.
They were just… gone.
Like deleted files in her mind.
---
She searched online again and found a buried forum post titled:
“I’m Awake. Come Talk – My Story”
Posted by someone named Saisha, dated 2016.
> “I texted the number. He replied kindly at first. Said he was cold. I told him I’d listen. That was my mistake.”
> “He doesn’t want your soul. He wants your identity. Your laugh, your scars, your face. Bit by bit.”
> “He wears the ones who invite him.”
Saisha was never seen again. But her phone kept sending messages to her sister for five more days.
---
Ira tried everything. She burned the SIM.
Changed phones. Flew to another city.
But at 3:17 AM, the new phone would buzz.
> Distance doesn’t change the door once it’s opened.
I’m in the bone now.
Her reflection began to glitch.
Sometimes she’d walk past a mirror and see her own body standing still, watching her go.
---
The final straw was the voice note.
She played it.
It was her voice — but warped, echoing like it had been recorded inside a tunnel of teeth.
> “You didn’t give it to me. But I took it. You left the door open. You said I could talk. And now…”
> “…I will never stop.”
---
They found Ira’s apartment abandoned weeks later.
No sign of forced entry. But strange scratches marred the floorboards — like someone had tried to crawl away… with broken fingers.
On the floor, her phone was still buzzing.
The text thread with +831-17-0317 read:
> Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
317 times.
And the last photo?
A girl, smiling in Ira’s room.
Wearing Ira’s hoodie.
But with someone else’s eyes.
---
Epilogue
A new girl, Neha, moves into Ira’s flat.
One night, while unpacking, she finds a scribbled note tucked inside a closet panel.
> “If he ever says your name, run. And never answer the message.”
Neha rolls her eyes.
But later, at 3:17 AM, her phone lights up with a message from an unknown number.
> Hi. I’m awake. Want to talk?
She laughs.
And replies:
> Sure.
React
