Last Seen Online

Last Seen Online

By Hasnain Shah

The first time I noticed it, I thought it was just a glitch.

Nora had always been dramatic on social media—posting cryptic quotes at 2 a.m., blurry pictures of empty streets, or playlists with titles like Songs for When the Walls Close In. We’d tease her about it in our group chat, but she’d laugh it off and say, “You’ll get it one day.”

Two weeks ago, she started posting stranger things. Screenshots of static-filled video calls. A single sentence written in all caps: “HE WON’T LET ME SLEEP.” Then it was a picture of her bedroom door, slightly ajar, with the caption: He’s inside.

We all assumed it was a performance. Nora loved horror films, urban legends, ghost stories. Half the time she’d pull us into her “projects” and make us beta readers for her writing. I figured this was just another experiment.

Until she stopped replying.

The last message I got from her was three words:

“Don’t follow me.”

No emojis, no punctuation, no explanation. Just that.

Her account went silent right after. No new posts. No replies. Not even the little green dot that told me she was online. I tried texting, calling—nothing.

The group chat grew tense. Jess thought Nora was pranking us. Mark said she probably deleted her apps. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The last post she’d made before vanishing still stuck in my head:

A photo of her bathroom mirror. Her reflection wasn’t there.

I decided to check on her.

Nora’s apartment was only a twenty-minute bus ride away. She lived on the edge of the city, in one of those buildings that looked like it had been new in the seventies and never touched since. The halls smelled faintly of mildew and burnt toast.

Her door was locked, but when I knocked, it creaked open a fraction, as if it had been closed in a hurry.

“Nora?” My voice echoed down the silent hall. No answer.

Inside, the apartment was dark. The blinds were pulled shut, and the air was heavy, like the heat had been trapped for days. I flicked on the light.

Her laptop sat open on the table. The screen glowed faintly, a frozen feed of her social media page. She’d typed a new post, but never hit “publish.”

It said: “If you’re reading this, it’s already too late.”

I should have left right then. But something drew me deeper inside.

The bathroom door was half-open. On the mirror, written in smeared lipstick, were the words: “LOOK BEHIND YOU.”

I froze. My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, I turned.

Nothing. Just the dim hallway stretching into the bedroom.

I told myself Nora had written it as part of her game. She was going to jump out any second, laughing, and tell me I’d fallen for it. But the silence pressed in heavier and heavier.

When I stepped into her bedroom, I knew.

The bed was unmade, sheets tangled, pillows on the floor. Her phone lay face-down on the nightstand. I picked it up. The screen lit instantly, no passcode.

Her last open app was the camera. The gallery showed dozens of photos—her bedroom, her closet, the space under her bed. Each photo timestamped minutes apart, like she’d been frantically searching for something… or hiding from it.

The last picture made my stomach drop.

It was a selfie. But she wasn’t alone.

Behind her, in the corner of the room, stood a figure. Too tall. Too thin. Its face blurred, as if the lens refused to capture it.

A sound rattled from the closet.

I stumbled back, dropping the phone. The screen cracked, the image of Nora’s terrified face splitting in two. The rattling grew louder—then stopped.

The silence that followed was worse than any noise.

I didn’t wait to see what was inside. I bolted from the apartment, down the stairs, out into the street, lungs burning as though I’d run a mile.

That night, I deleted Nora’s number. I unfollowed her accounts, erased our old conversations. But I couldn’t erase the feeling that I hadn’t really left that apartment.

Because sometimes, when I’m about to sleep, my phone lights up. A notification.

Nora mentioned you in a post.

But when I click it, there’s nothing there. Just the faint reflection of my own face in the black screen—

and something taller, thinner, standing right behind me.