Psychological Thriller / Mystery

I woke up to the vibration of a buzz.

3:17 a.m.

My phone cast an eerie glow on the nightstand. The message was:

"Don't open the door. No matter what. Not tonight."

Half-asleep and confused, I stared at the message, praying it to be a glitch, a joke. But no contact information. No number. No name. Just that one chilling line.

And then it vanished. Deleted. As if it never existed.

I sat bolt upright.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The fridge whirred softly, and occasionally a car passed by outside. But the air was heavy. Charged. Like the moment before a storm.

Must have dreamed it, I told myself. Stress. Sleeplessness. Too much caffeine.

And then came the knock.

Three loud, deliberate taps.

I didn't stir. Taut body, pounding heart in my ears.

There was another knock. And then nothing.

I threw the blanket aside and moved slowly across the cold floor to the door. Each step was slower than the last, as if the hallway had increased in size. The apartment was not large, but it seemed endless at that moment.

I peered through the peephole.

Nothing. The corridor was empty.

I waited one minute. Nothing. No movement.

Breathing a bit easier, I returned to bed.

Buzz.

The phone. Again. I answered it with shaking hands.

3:22 a.m.

Same mysterious number. Same impossibility.

"I told you not to open it. You still have time. Just wait."

I didn't dawdle this time. I placed the chain lock into place and backed away from the door, glaring at it like it would somehow burst open.

Morning broke like a slap in the face. Hot, sunny light streamed into my living room. The rumble of automobiles outside. The smell of cold coffee in my cup. All was. normal. Painfully, unnaturally normal.

I glanced at my messages.

Nothing. No record of the texts. No strange number. No indication in the call logs. It was as if the phone had been reset during the night.

I almost convinced myself that I dreamed the whole thing—until I looked at the door.

Three deep, jagged scratch marks—low and horizontal—torn the surface of the wood, right where my head would have been if I'd opened it.

I didn't report it to the police. What do I tell them?

"Hi, I got a text from the future and now my door's got devil scratches?"

No. I wanted answers, not giggles.

I started digging.

Phone diagnostics. Developer tools. Message traces. Baseband access logs. And then deeper—into forums, hacker threads, encrypted chat boards.

That's where I found it:

"Echo Warnings."

Whispers on the web. Occasional reports from people who claimed to have received messages from themselves—mere minutes before catastrophe struck. Some wrote it off as a time glitch. Others assumed it was an end message before they perished. But one posting stood out:

"If you ignore the first warning, there won't be a second."

That night, I couldn't sleep. Coffee beside me. Phone battery charged. Lights on. I sat staring at the clock.

3:17 a.m.

Nothing.

3:18.

Buzz.

"You're close to the edge. Don't check the mirror."

I instinctively turned in the direction of the corridor.

The mirror was by the entrance. Plain, rectangular frame. I looked into it. Just me. White. Tired. Scruffy.

And my reflection smiled.

I didn't.

I stepped back, colliding with a chair and slamming down onto the floor. Glancing again, the reflection was good. My chest fought to breathe.

What's wrong with me?

The texts kept coming.

Every evening. Same time. Always a warning.

"Don't pick up the call."

"The guy in the elevator doesn't exist."

"They're watching through your camera."

"Your window is open."

I started writing them down. Charting them. Searching for patterns. Links. But every warning just made it more unclear.

And then, one night, the tone changed.

"This is the last one."

"You sent these. You requested that I warn you."

"But you didn't pay attention."

I stared at the message, hand trembling.

Buzz.

"Check the mirror."

I did not want to. Every strand screamed not to. But I walked anyway.

The reflection had altered.

It was still me. but older. Hollow-eyed, tight-jawed, a hollow look in my eyes. Like someone who had seen too much and lived too little.

His mouth moved slowly.

"You opened the door."

And then the lights went out.