Don’t text back

I grabbed Olivia’s shirt collar as she scream-laughed — that awful sound that always made my spine twist. I hated when she did that. In all fairness, I thought she was actually screaming. Earlier, when I’d been in the shower, it came through the phone like a murder scene — high-pitched, echoing, and raw.

“Stop doing that! It sounds like you’re dying!” I barked, reaching for my phone. My lock screen glowed with twenty notifications. That was strange — our most recent group chat only had three people in it, including me.

Olivia was sprawled on her sleeping bag, face glowing blue in the phone’s light, tears of laughter streaming down her face. 3:00 a.m. blinked on the clock beside her.

I opened my mouth to tell her I wanted to sleep, but she just swiped down again, shrieking with laughter at some video.

I turned over, pulled the blanket over my face, and waited for her to shut up. Twenty minutes passed. Still scrolling. Still laughing.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I muttered.

“Yeah, okay,” she said absently.

I trudged past her sleeping bag toward the door — then froze. The air shifted behind me. A sharp inhale, strangled and short.

My hand dropped from the doorknob.
“Olivia?”

She didn’t move. Her eyes were wide and glassy, reflecting the pale light of her cracked screen. Her phone slipped from her fingers and hit the ground with a dull crack; the glass webbing with fractures.

I rushed over and grabbed her shoulders. “Olivia! What’s wrong?”
Nothing. Just silence. Her pupils were shaking.

Her phone buzzed once. Then twice. Then again, a rapid tremor against the floor.
I picked it up. At first, the screen looked normal — until I saw the last notification. Don’t text back.

My stomach tightened. I unlocked the phone. There were at least ten unread messages from an unknown number.

I scrolled to the top.

I know where you live.
I know who you are.
I know what you did.
No one else knows yet.
You killed them.
You killed them.
I know what you did.
You killed them.
You killed them.
I’m watching you.
I’m going to kill you like you killed them.
Don’t text back.

I stared until the words blurred. My pulse pounded in my ears.

“Olivia… what did you do?” My voice trembled. “Who is this? Do you know them?”

She blinked hard, as if snapping out of a trance. “It’s… it’s probably spam,” she said too quickly. She snatched the phone. “I’m going to text back.”

“Olivia, they said not to! Just—just leave it alone!”

“Relax.” She typed fast, her cracked screen glinting. “Okay, sent. Thoughts?” She turned the phone toward me.

Her message read: Get a life — and don’t lose another wife.

I didn’t laugh. But she did. That horrible scream-laugh again, echoing off the walls. “Come on, Ceci! You’re freaking out over some bored weirdo online.” She shook my shoulders. “Loosen up!”

I couldn’t even speak. Her sudden cheerfulness felt wrong — forced, robotic. She went right back to scrolling, giggling, talking about starting a Snapstreak, like none of it happened.
Eventually, I tried to breathe normally. The silence grew heavier, the air thicker. Then — my phone buzzed.

The message on my lock screen froze my blood. Don’t ignore me.
Same number.

I shoved it in Olivia’s face. “See?! It’s them again!”

“Ceci, it’s spam!” she snapped, turning away.

Then more texts. The sound of buzzing filled the dark like a swarm of insects.

Don’t ignore me.
Don’t ignore me.
I know where you are.
I know who you are.
I know what your friend did.

Something shifted in the hallway. A creak — long, deliberate, like weight pressing down on an old floorboard.

Olivia froze this time.

Another creak. Closer. Then the faint scrape of something dragging along the wall.
“Lock the door,” I hissed.

We lunged for it together, slamming it shut and fumbling with the latch. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely feel the cold metal.

For a moment, the world was silent except for our breathing — sharp and ragged in the darkness.

Then came the shattering. Glass breaking somewhere in the house. The sound of something heavy falling.

My phone buzzed again.

“Ceci, I can’t find the light switch!” Olivia gasped, her voice cracking.

The buzzing grew louder, insistent. I looked down. Another message.

You texted back.

Another one appeared before I could move.

I’m already inside.

We both froze. The house was dead silent now.

Then — a faint knock. Not at the door. From inside the room.

A slow, careful knock, like knuckles brushing against the underside of the bed.

Olivia’s phone lit up on the floor. A reflection — a shadowed shape standing just behind me in the screen’s glare.

I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. Tears streamed down my face.

The phone buzzed one last time.

Don’t look.

Credit: L.R. Mullens