The Last Message Before the Blackout:

It was supposed to be an ordinary evening. Karachi’s streets buzzed with their usual rhythm — vendors shouting, rickshaws weaving, children chasing each other under flickering streetlights. I was at home, scrolling through my phone, half-listening to the hum of the fan, when the message arrived.

It was short. Just five words: “Don’t go outside tonight.”

The sender was unknown. No name, no number I recognized. Just a string of digits that looked wrong, almost incomplete. I frowned, assuming it was spam. But something about the timing unsettled me.

Before I could reply, the lights flickered. The fan slowed, the television stuttered, and then everything went dark. Karachi had plunged into a blackout.

At first, I thought nothing of it. Power outages are part of life here. But the silence that followed was different. Usually, generators roar to life, neighbors shout, candles flicker in windows. This time, there was nothing. No sound, no light, just a heavy, suffocating darkness.

I checked my phone again. The message glowed on the screen, the only light in the room. Don’t go outside tonight.

My heart raced. Was it a warning? A prank? Or something else?

Minutes passed. The city outside remained eerily quiet. I stepped to the balcony, expecting to see lanterns or hear voices. Instead, I saw shadows moving — slow, deliberate, too many to count. Figures drifted along the street, silent, faceless.

I retreated inside, locking the door. My phone buzzed again. Another message: “They are not what they seem.”Fear clawed at me. Who was sending these? How did they know what I was seeing?

I tried calling back, but the line wouldn’t connect. No signal, no network. Just the message, glowing like a lifeline.

Hours dragged on. The shadows outside grew bolder, pressing against doors, tapping on windows. I heard footsteps in the stairwell, slow and heavy. My neighbors didn’t answer when I called out. The building felt abandoned, yet alive with something I couldn’t name.

Another message arrived: “Stay where the light is.”

But there was no light. Only my phone’s dim glow, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls. I clutched it like a weapon, praying the battery would last.

At midnight, the tapping stopped. Silence returned, heavier than before. I dared to peek outside. The street was empty. The shadows had vanished.

Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. My phone buzzed one last time. The message read: “You survived. For now.”

The blackout ended moments later. Lights flickered back, fans whirred, and Karachi’s chaos resumed as if nothing had happened. Neighbors emerged, laughing nervously, complaining about the outage. No one spoke of shadows. No one admitted to hearing footsteps.

I checked my phone again. The messages were gone. No record, no sender, no trace. Just silence.

Even now, I wonder who warned me. Was it a stranger? A ghost? A part of myself I didn’t understand? The blackout was real, but the messages — they remain a mystery.

And sometimes, when the lights flicker, I feel my phone buzz. I never check. I’m too afraid of what I might see.

Because some messages aren’t meant to be answered.

Even now, while the lighting fixtures flicker and the city holds its breath, I experience the phantom buzz of my smartphone. I in no way test — due to the fact I realize what waits on the opposite facet of the display. a few messages are warnings, a few are reminiscences, and some are doors we must in no way open. The ultimate message before the blackout wasn’t just a text; it turned into a reminder that in the silence of darkness, the maximum haunting voices are the ones that locate us when we least assume them.