The silence was absolute, broken only by the sudden shrill ring of his phone. The screen displayed no number, no contact, just a single word in stark white letters: RUN. He stared at it, half amused and half annoyed, convinced it was some elaborate prank. The room felt colder than before, goosebumps rising on his skin as the phone’s glow seemed to pulse in his hand.
He glanced up, catching his reflection in the rain-speckled window. But the face staring from behind his shoulder was not his own. Breath caught in his throat, he spun around, heart hammering, only to find the room empty. The silence thickened, pressing in from all sides, the air now heavy with something unseen.
The phone rang again, jarring him from his frozen stance. He picked it up, hand shaking, and saw the same chilling word: RUN. This time, the glass was cracked—fractures radiating as if something inside wanted to break out. He staggered backward, the device burning cold in his palm, and hurled it toward the trash can.
Before it even landed, the phone shrieked, the word RUN flashing brighter than ever. It hit the floor, but the sound didn’t stop. It echoed, vibrating in the air, as if the phone’s warning had seeped into the very walls. He stumbled back, breath ragged, the urge to flee warring with the paralysis of fear.
Then, from the closet, a voice—dry and close—whispered the word, not from the phone but from within the darkness itself. "Run..." The word crawled along his spine, more command than suggestion, each syllable carrying the weight of imminent danger. His eyes locked onto the thin line of blackness where the closet door hung ajar, shadow twisting just beyond reach.
He bolted, stumbling past overturned chairs and scattered belongings, never daring to look back. The phone’s light flickered on the floor, casting long, warped shadows that seemed to reach for his fleeing form. As he wrenched the front door open, the whisper from the closet followed, softer but closer—reminding him that some warnings demand to be obeyed.
