The Last Message

It started with a simple text.

“Are you awake?”

The number was unknown.

I stared at my phone. It was 2:41 a.m., and the rest of the world was sleeping — or supposed to be. I should’ve ignored it. I almost did.

But curiosity has a strange pull in the middle of the night.

“Who is this?” I replied.

The response came immediately:

“You don’t remember me. But I remember you.”

A chill ran through me. I sat up, heart thumping. The room was silent, except for the soft ticking of the clock and the distant hum of traffic. I checked the number again. No name. Just ten unfamiliar digits.

I hesitated, then typed:

“What do you want?”

The reply came after a pause, longer this time.

“To tell you the truth. Before it’s too late.”

Something about those words made my skin crawl.

I should have blocked the number. I should have turned off the phone and gone back to sleep. But I didn’t. Instead, I asked:

“What truth?”

Seconds passed. Then minutes. No reply.

At 2:59 a.m., my phone buzzed again — but not with a text.

It was a picture.

I tapped it open and stared in disbelief.

It was me, taken from behind — sitting in the coffee shop near my office. I had my headphones on. I was scrolling through my phone. The timestamp on the image was from that same afternoon.

I hadn’t noticed anyone watching me.

That’s when the panic started. I stood up, checked my windows. All closed. Locked. I opened the door quietly and peered down the hallway. Empty.

Back in my room, another message arrived.

“I know what you did. Ten years ago. It’s time you remembered too.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Ten years ago… a memory stirred — one I had long buried.

There was a trip. A forest. A group of us.

Me, my two best friends — Saad and Hammad — and a girl named Zara.

Zara had disappeared that weekend. Vanished. No one ever found her. There were whispers, theories, and accusations. But nothing ever stuck. It became one of those cold cases that just faded with time.

We had all moved on.

Or tried to.

I dropped my phone on the bed and splashed water on my face. My mind was racing. Could this be someone playing a sick prank? One of the guys messing with me?

But the photo was real. The timing, the message — too precise.

And the memory… it was coming back, slowly, painfully.

The fight. The cliff. The scream.

At 3:17 a.m., the next message came.

“Check your email.”

My hands were shaking now. I opened my laptop and logged in.

One new email. No subject. No name. Just an attachment: a short video file titled “Zara.mp4.”

I clicked play.

It was grainy and shaky, filmed in the dark. The camera moved through trees. There was arguing in the background. A woman’s voice — Zara’s — shouting something I couldn’t make out. Then a man’s voice, loud and angry.

The camera panned up, and for a split second, I saw my own face.

Then the video cut to black.

I slammed the laptop shut, heart pounding in my chest like a drum. I felt like I was being watched again.

My phone buzzed.

“I trusted you. You all left me. You let me fall.”

“Now you fall.”

I called Saad. He picked up on the third ring, groggy.

“Man, it’s 3:30 in the morning—”

“She’s texting me,” I blurted. “Zara. Someone… or something. I got pictures. A video. They know everything.”

There was silence.

Then he whispered, “You got the video too?”

My blood turned cold.

“What do you mean too?”

“I got it yesterday,” he said. “And so did Hammad. Bro, someone knows. They’re trying to destroy us.”

“We should’ve told the truth,” I whispered. “Back then.”

Saad didn’t respond.

And then my phone beeped again.

Incoming Call — ZARA

I stared at the screen, unable to move.

The name I hadn’t seen in ten years.

The name engraved on the memorial stone by the lake.

The phone kept ringing. And when it finally stopped, a final message arrived.

“You buried me in silence. I rise in truth.”

The screen went black.

And outside my apartment, footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Slow. Heavy. Getting closer.