It happened on a night that already felt strange.
The wind outside my window made the tree branches scrape against the glass like bony fingers. I’d stayed up late, texting my best friend Jake about tomorrow’s math test, but honestly, we were mostly joking around about ghosts and spooky stuff.
Then I remembered something.
Earlier that day, I’d found an old, dusty notebook in the attic. The cover was scratched, and on the first page, someone had written, *“Don’t read this out loud.”*
Of course, I’d read it out loud anyway. It was a short rhyme, almost like a chant. And the weirdest part? When I finished, I thought I heard knocking somewhere upstairs — even though I knew I was alone.
Now, sitting in my room at nearly midnight, I wanted to tell Jake about it. So I typed:
> “Hey, remember that notebook? I think something’s really in this house. I feel like I’m being watched.”
Without checking twice, I hit send.
Then my screen lit up.
I realised, to my horror, I hadn’t sent it to Jake.
I’d sent it to *Unknown Number* — a number I didn’t recognise, saved in my phone as just “???”
I didn’t remember adding it. Maybe it was a prank contact Jake made on my phone. Maybe it was someone else.
I laughed nervously and waited.
Then the typing bubbles appeared.
“I see you too,” the message said.
---
My chest tightened. I stared at the words, hoping it was a joke.
I texted back:
“Who is this?”
No answer.
I put the phone down, telling myself it was just someone messing with me. But then, from the corner of my eye, I saw something move by my window.
I turned. Nothing there.
The tree branches tapped again, almost like they were spelling something against the glass.
---
I texted Jake this time — making sure it was actually *him*:
“Dude, someone’s messing with me. I texted the wrong number and they replied ‘I see you too.’”
Jake replied almost instantly:
“Are you serious? Who?”
“I don’t know. Saved as ??? in my phone.”
“That wasn’t me,” he wrote. “Delete it.”
“Why?”
“Just do it!” Jake sent, then added, “Call me.”
But before I could call, another message came from the unknown number:
“Don’t delete me. Come upstairs.”
I froze.
---
My room is on the second floor.
There *is* no “upstairs.” Just the dusty attic.
I texted Jake again:
“They told me to go upstairs.”
“*DO NOT* go,” he wrote, letters all caps.
At that exact moment, my bedroom light flickered, then died. The only glow came from my phone screen.
And then... thump.
A heavy sound, coming from above me. From the attic.
---
I backed toward my door.
The phone buzzed again:
“Come upstairs. I’m waiting.”
I turned off my phone, but the message notification kept glowing on the black screen — as if it was burned in.
Against every bit of common sense, I cracked my door open and looked down the hallway.
Quiet. Too quiet.
Then: another thump. Louder.
Dust rained down from the ceiling hatch that led to the attic.
---
I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I wanted to prove to myself it was just an animal, or maybe I was too scared to do nothing.
But I got the small ladder from the closet, set it under the attic door, and slowly pushed open the hatch.
The attic smelled old and damp, like forgotten boxes.
I lifted my phone to use the flashlight, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
---
That’s when I saw\... something.
In the far corner, behind an old trunk, something moved. A pale hand, curling around the edge.
I gasped. My phone nearly slipped from my hand.
“Who’s there?” I whispered, voice cracking.
No answer. Just silence.
I took a slow step closer.
The hand twitched, then slipped out of sight.
---
Suddenly, my phone buzzed. I looked down.
A new message:
“Almost there.”
I turned back to the corner.
Empty.
Then, from behind *me*, a cold breath on my neck.
---
I spun around.
Nothing.
I stumbled back, hit the trunk, and my phone slipped, bouncing across the dusty floor. The light flickered, then went out completely.
In the darkness, I heard whispering. Soft at first, then louder — words I couldn’t understand.
It felt like dozens of voices, all around me.
---
Heart racing, I grabbed my phone. The screen stayed black, but when I tapped it, the unknown number appeared again, glowing faintly:
“Look behind you.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
“Look,” the message repeated.
My body turned on its own.
Behind me, where the hand had been, there was now a figure, crouched low. Its face was hidden by long, stringy hair. Its clothes were torn and grey with dust.
Slowly, it lifted its head.
---
I don’t remember running. I just remember bursting down the attic ladder, slamming my bedroom door shut, and locking it.
My phone buzzed again:
“Why did you run?”
Another buzz:
“You read the rhyme out loud. Now you belong here.”
My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone.
I texted Jake in all caps:
“HELP. COME TO MY HOUSE NOW.”
---
Minutes felt like years until Jake replied:
“Outside. Come on!”
I ran downstairs, threw open the front door, and nearly crashed into him.
Jake saw my face and stopped smiling. “What happened?”
“The attic,” I gasped. “There’s *something* there.”
He looked up at the house. “Dude... there *isn’t* an attic. Your house doesn’t even *have* one.”
I turned back.
Where the attic hatch had been — just flat ceiling.
That night, Jake stayed over. We checked my phone together.
The “???” contact?
Gone. Completely vanished.
The dusty notebook?
Missing too.
---
Sometimes, late at night, I still get chills thinking about it.
Especially when my phone buzzes unexpectedly.
And sometimes — just sometimes — I still hear a whisper, as if someone is crouched right behind me in the dark, saying:
“Look behind you.”
React
