You sit cross-legged on the bed, knees drawn up, clutching your phone tightly. The camera is flipped to selfie mode, shaky hands barely keeping the image steady. Your face is tense, eyes darting nervously to the darkest corner of the room, where the shadows seem deeper, almost alive.
"Bro… it’s 3:33 AM. And I keep hearing someone in my room." You whisper, voice barely above a breath. The faint sound of breathing, not your own, seems to fill the silence. You angle the phone to show the glowing numbers on the screen—3:33 AM—then slowly pan toward the dark corner.
The screen lights up with a new message. The sender is MOM. The text reads: "Don’t look at the corner." Your heart pounds as you freeze, staring at the glowing words, hands trembling.
"How does she know what I’m doing…?" you mutter, voice cracking with fear. Another message appears almost instantly, the chill of anticipation prickling your skin. "If you look at it… it copies your face." The phone feels heavier, as if weighed down by the knowledge itself.
You try to steady your shaking hands, but the fear is creeping up your spine. The faint sound of footsteps, soft but unmistakable, echoes behind you. Every instinct screams at you to run, but your legs refuse to move.
"Wait… I’m home alone…" you whisper, voice barely audible. The sense of being watched intensifies, as if the darkness itself is pressing in around you, hungry for your attention.
You stare at the message, blood draining from your face. The text reads: "I already did." The realization hits like a wave, cold and merciless. Your reflection in the phone’s front camera seems to flicker, as if something else is sharing the screen with you.
Voice from the Corner (unseen, presence only): "Smile." The words slither through the darkness, sending a jolt of terror through your entire body. The last thing the camera captures is your pale, horrified face, before the screen cuts to black with a harsh, digital glitch.
