Possessed by the Phone: A Jinn Inside the Device

Possessed by the Phone: A Jinn Inside the Device

I had just moved to a new city for university. Money was tight, so I bought a second-hand smartphone from a quiet electronics shop tucked into a dark corner of a bazaar. The shopkeeper — an old man with unusually pale eyes — placed the device in my hands with a strange warning:

"Don’t use it after midnight."

I laughed it off.

It was a sleek phone. Perfect condition. Too perfect, actually, for its price.

The first few days were normal — fast internet, smooth apps, great camera.

Then, strange things began.

The phone would unlock by itself.
Messages I never typed appeared in my drafts.
The flashlight blinked in patterns I couldn’t decode.
And every night at exactly 12:37 a.m., the screen lit up — even when powered off.

Once, while half-asleep, I heard it vibrate. I picked it up and saw a call in progress.

Caller ID: “Inside You”

I dropped it.

I reset it the next day.

It didn't help.

New apps began appearing — with names in unfamiliar scripts. Arabic-like, but not Arabic. Whenever I tried to uninstall them, the phone would freeze and whisper something in a deep, raspy voice.

Yes. Whisper.
From the speaker, even when the volume was off.

I recorded it once and played it back for a friend.

He turned pale.

“Bro… that’s not human.”

The next day, he stopped answering my calls.

I started having nightmares.

A tall, smoky figure with burning eyes would stand at the foot of my bed, holding the phone in one hand — pointing at me with the other.

It spoke without lips.

“Mine now.”

My grades dropped. My energy drained. My thoughts were no longer mine. I forgot names, directions, even prayers.

Once, during Jummah prayer, my phone rang — loudly.

But I had turned it off.

When I checked, it had deleted all Quranic apps. Only one remained, with the name “Obey Him.”

I opened it.

A single screen:
A red eye, blinking.
Underneath: "Say yes."

I threw the phone in the river.

Relieved, I went home.

But that night… it buzzed under my pillow.

Same phone.

Same scratch on the screen.
Same background image — a selfie I never took, of me sleeping.

I took it to a maulana.

He read ruqyah, then held it up. The screen cracked into three pieces. Smoke hissed from the speaker.

“Who sold this to you?” he asked.

I returned to the bazaar.

The shop was gone.

Not closed — erased.
No one remembered it. Not even the other shopkeepers.

And now?

The phone no longer needs to be touched.

It types on its own.

Sometimes, when I sleep, it live streams — but the viewer count is always “1”...
and the viewer’s name is written in ancient script I now understand:

"Malik al-Zulm."

I don't know how much time I have left.
But if you're reading this, and your phone behaves oddly —
Don’t scroll. Don’t tap. Don’t whisper.

Just run.

Or... kneel.