"I Found an Old Phone in the Woods. It Still Had Battery—and Messages"

It was supposed to be just a short hike.

I needed a break—from work, from the constant buzzing of notifications, from life. I left my phone in the car, zipped up my jacket, and followed the old trail behind my grandfather’s cabin. The path wasn’t marked, but he had shown it to me as a kid, and muscle memory took over.

About twenty minutes in, the woods thickened. The air turned still. No birdsong. No wind. Just the crunch of dry leaves beneath my boots.

And then I saw it.

A glint of light beneath a pile of moss near the base of a tree. I knelt down and brushed it aside. It was a phone—an old black smartphone, scratched, dusty, but oddly intact. I pressed the power button.

It turned on.

Battery: 23%.

No lock screen. No passcode. Just the home screen with a single app open: Messages.

There were only four messages.

Message 1 — 2:13 PM (Yesterday):

“We’re lost. Can you still hear them?”

Message 2 — 2:15 PM:

“Whatever you do, DON’T follow the lights.”

Message 3 — 2:17 PM:

“He’s not who you think he is. It’s wearing his face.”

Message 4 — 2:19 PM:

“If someone finds this… RUN.”

I felt a chill crawl down my spine. I looked around, half-expecting someone to jump out of the trees.

No one.

Just stillness. Silence. That buzzing silence where your own heartbeat is the loudest thing in your body.

I should have left the phone and gone back. But curiosity won. I opened the messaging app further. The sender’s name was "M." The recipient’s name? Just a heart emoji. No call log. No photos. No signal. No contacts.

It was like the phone was frozen in time—left here on purpose.

Then the screen flickered.

A new message appeared.

Time: Now.

“Why are you still here?”

My hands went cold.

I dropped the phone, but it didn’t fall—it landed softly on the moss, screen still glowing.

I picked it up again, and suddenly the phone app opened itself. A dial tone rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

And then…

A voice.

Not from the phone. From the woods.

“I see you.”

It was faint. Distant. Echoing. Male, but not quite human. Like it was being filtered through static.

I backed away. Fast. Heart pounding. I spun around, searching for the trail I came from—but the trees… they didn’t look the same anymore. Everything seemed denser. The light was dimmer, like the sun had dipped too far too quickly.

The phone buzzed in my hand again.

“It knows you found the phone.”

“It’s coming.”

Suddenly, from behind the trees, I saw a flicker of light. A soft, glowing orb floating a few feet off the ground. Then another. And another. Blue-white lights moving silently between the trees, circling me.

I remembered the second message.

“Don’t follow the lights.”

I ran. I didn’t look back. Branches scratched my arms. Mud clung to my boots. The lights grew brighter behind me, speeding up—almost chasing.

I don’t remember how long I ran.

Eventually, I stumbled onto a gravel road. Civilization. I collapsed on the shoulder, gasping for breath. My hands were shaking. The phone was gone.

Back in town, I tried to tell someone. A ranger. A friend. No one believed me. One even laughed and said, “Those woods have always been weird. You’re lucky you made it out.”

But the next day, I went back—with others. With gear. The area where I found the phone?

It was gone. No moss pile. No tree stump. Just forest. Thick and untouched.

We combed that area for hours.

Nothing.

But that night, when I got home… a package was sitting on my doorstep. No return address. Just a small brown box.

Inside was the phone.

Still on.

Battery: 22%.

And one new message.

“This time, you brought it back with you.”

Now, things are happening. Lights flicker in my apartment. I hear footsteps at night. My reflection sometimes doesn’t move when I do.

I’ve tried destroying the phone. Burned it. Smashed it. Threw it in the river.

It always comes back.

And the messages keep coming.

Last night’s?

“One more person. That’s all it needs.”

So if you ever find an old phone in the woods—

Leave it.

Walk away.

Forget you ever saw it.

Because some messages…

Aren’t meant to be read.