I Found a Phone in the Woods. I Shouldn't Have Opened It.

I had no business being in the woods that day. No real reason to walk so far off the beaten trail. I was there to clear my head, to escape the mess of my life back home. My job was killing me, my relationship was falling apart, and the deep silence of the forest was all I had left to ground me.

I thought I’d be alone.

But I wasn’t.

It was a small, unmarked path that led deep into the trees. I’d walked it once before, years ago, but I never went far. Something about it had always unsettled me, like the trees were too thick and the air was too still. Still, I’d returned, hoping that maybe this time, I’d find some peace.

The morning was crisp, the air heavy with dampness from the mist that clung to the branches. As I walked, my feet crunched the damp leaves beneath me. I wasn’t sure how long I had been walking, but by the time I noticed the phone, I was miles from the entrance of the woods.

It was lying there in a patch of dirt, half-buried by the underbrush, almost like someone had intentionally placed it there. At first, I thought it was just an old, forgotten device. Maybe someone dropped it during a hike years ago.

But it was too clean, too new-looking to have been lying there long.

I picked it up, feeling a strange sense of hesitation. The screen was cracked in a few places, but the black glass still gleamed in the muted sunlight. It looked like a typical smartphone — nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the eerie way it seemed to glow faintly in the dim woods.

As I brushed off the dirt, I noticed that there was no password. No lock screen. No barrier at all between me and its contents. Curious, I swiped the screen.

The first thing that caught my eye was a folder labeled “Don’t Open This”. I froze for a moment, the warning too clear to ignore. But, like the fool I was, I clicked on it.

Inside, there were videos. Ten, to be exact. Each one had a title, but they were all in a format I didn’t recognize. The dates were strange too. They spanned weeks, months — yet the phone itself hadn’t seemed to be used for that long.

I clicked on the first video.

The screen flickered to life, showing shaky footage of a man — a young man, mid-20s, wearing hiking gear. He was walking through the forest, the camera bouncing with each step, as if he was filming it himself. His breathing was labored, like he was either running or on the verge of panic.

The video was cut short. The screen went black abruptly.

I stared at the phone in disbelief. It wasn’t much to go on, but I felt a strange sense of dread creeping up my spine. Who filmed this? Why was this on the phone? What was I even doing here in the first place?

I clicked on the next video.

The second video was almost identical, but this time, I could hear whispers. Soft, distant, but unmistakable. The man was still walking, but his pace had slowed. His eyes kept darting to the trees around him, as if something was watching.

Then, he stopped.

The camera zoomed in on his face, and for a split second, I saw something I couldn’t explain — a fleeting shadow that appeared behind him, just outside the camera’s view. The man didn’t seem to notice, but I could hear his breath catch.

The video cut to black.

I almost threw the phone down, but I couldn’t stop. I had to see more. Why did I feel so compelled?

The third video was longer.

It showed the same man again, this time sitting on a rock by a stream. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot. He wasn’t talking to the camera anymore. In fact, the camera had been placed down beside him, filming his face as he stared blankly into the distance.

His hand trembled as it reached toward his pocket, pulling out something — a crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it and stared at it for a long time. The camera was angled just right so that I could see what he was reading.

It was a message, handwritten. But the words... they made no sense. They were gibberish, nonsensical letters and symbols, as if the writer was losing their mind.

Then the camera shook violently, and the man screamed.

The video abruptly cut off.

I didn’t know what was worse — the feeling that someone was filming this in real time, or the fact that I felt like I was watching someone slowly descend into madness. Each video was a slow unraveling. The man was deteriorating, physically and mentally. His appearance changed from one video to the next, his clothes more torn, his eyes more hollow.

The final video, number ten, was the most chilling.

It started with a view of the same forest, but this time, the camera wasn’t held by the man. It was placed on the ground, aimed up at the trees, as if waiting.

Then, footsteps. Slow. Purposeful. The camera jerked and swayed, as though someone was walking toward it. The figure that emerged from the trees wasn’t the man I had seen in the previous videos.

It was me.

Standing there, just outside the frame.

I couldn’t breathe. The phone fell from my hands.

When I came to my senses, I was back in my car, driving down the road. My heart pounded in my chest, my hands gripping the wheel too tight.

The phone was gone.

I don’t know how it disappeared, but it was no longer in the woods. And yet, every night since, I hear something in my house. A sound that reminds me of whispering. A crackling, almost as if something is trying to get through.

I found a phone in the woods. And now, I can’t escape it.