stalker

You fell asleep with fitful dreams: a cold wind rustled through the cracks in the door, and every sound in the entryway seemed like breathing. The phone on the nightstand was silent, and you didn't bother checking the unknown number. Morning seemed far away.

At three in the morning, my phone buzzed—a message and a video. It showed your bedroom, a silhouette by the peephole, and the text: "Don't sleep. I'm here."

Your heart started beating faster. Police? The door? You approached the peephole: the hallway beyond was empty. The lock had been changed, the chain on the door—but the cold remained.

The messages continued: "don't be afraid," "I like you," "don't go far tomorrow."