Chris didn't sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed, knees pulled up to his chest like a child hiding from the monster under the mattress.
But his monster wasn't under the bed — it was in his hand. Cold, cracked, and blinking at him like an open eye that never shut.
Every few minutes, he'd unlock the phone and scroll through the messages again, hoping they'd disappear.
Open the door, Chris.
If you don't open it, I will.
Knock.
They stayed — stubborn digital ghosts burned into the screen. He tried deleting them, but each time he hit delete, they vanished for a heartbeat only to crawl back, one by one.
Outside his window, the first light of dawn turned the courtyard grey and hollow. The world looked normal, but the air inside his tiny room felt thick, like he was breathing through wet cloth.
He tried to tell himself it was all in his head. Maybe he'd fallen asleep last night and dreamed it. Maybe the old phone had glitches. That had to be it — a broken phone, old data, leftover messages from whoever owned it last.
He'd take it to the repair guys at the campus gate. They'd know how to fix it — maybe they'd laugh at him for being so jumpy over a piece of junk.
He shoved the phone into his pocket, threw on his old hoodie, and left the room without looking back.
The hallway was bright with early morning light now, but Chris still checked over his shoulder twice before he reached the stairs.
Outside, students drifted by in pairs — girls in big hoodies, guys with backpacks hanging low, some laughing, some glued to their own phones. Normal.
Chris clutched his pocket like the thing might slip out and crawl away on its own.
He found the repair shop just off campus — a tiny metal container painted bright yellow, loud afrobeats playing from a radio propped on a shelf.
The repairman, a boy barely older than Chris, sat cross-legged behind a desk littered with phone parts and cracked screens.
Chris handed him the phone without a word. The boy looked at it, turned it over, pried at the back.
"No charger?" the boy asked.
Chris shook his head.
The boy plugged it into a charger and watched the screen flicker. He pressed a few buttons. His brow furrowed.
"Where you get this phone?" he asked.
"Secondhand stall behind the hostel," Chris muttered.
The boy let out a dry laugh. "Na so. These tokunbo phones dey mad sometimes." He tapped the screen again. "This one — e no fit wipe."
"What do you mean?" Chris asked, leaning forward.
"See — I fit format am, but e go still load old files back. Virus maybe. Bad software. Maybe na wetin the first owner put."
Chris swallowed. "Can you fix it?"
The boy shrugged. "I fit try. You go drop am."
Chris hesitated. He didn't want to touch it again. Maybe leaving it here was good. Maybe when he came back it would be clean — no messages, no voice whispering his name in the dark.
He dropped two crumpled notes on the table as a deposit. "I'll come back later," he said.
The boy nodded, already pulling a tiny screwdriver from a cracked plastic case.
Outside, the air felt easier to breathe. Chris shoved his hands deep into his pockets and let the weak morning sun warm his shoulders. He felt lighter without the phone — like someone had cut off a chain around his neck.
He spent the whole day in the library, pretending to study. Every time he dozed off over his notes, he dreamed of knocks and whispers and a cold finger tracing his spine.
By evening, he walked back to the repair shop with a small hope in his chest. Maybe the phone was dead for good now. Maybe tonight he'd sleep.
The container was closed when he arrived. The metal door was padlocked, the radio gone, the inside dark. He peered through the dusty glass — nothing moved.
He banged on the door. Nothing. He called out. A woman selling roasted corn nearby shrugged when he asked if she'd seen the boy leave.
Defeated, he turned away. Maybe tomorrow. He'd get it back tomorrow.
His pocket buzzed.
Chris froze. He patted his pocket, half-expecting to feel the phone's cracked shape — but it was empty. His heart stuttered.
Buzz. Buzz.
He turned slowly — the corn seller stared at him like he'd gone mad. He forced a smile and hurried away, following the vibration that hummed like a hidden heartbeat.
When he reached his room, the door was ajar. He pushed it open with shaking fingers.
There — on his desk — lay the phone. The same cracks. The same cheap black nylon bag beside it.
The screen was on. It buzzed once more.
Incoming Call — Unknown Number.
Chris stepped back, shaking his head. He wanted to run, to throw it from the window, to smash it into pieces — but his feet wouldn't move.
The phone rang again, softer this time, like a lullaby dragging him closer.
He picked it up. His thumb hovered over the green button.
He pressed it.
Static. Then a hiss, soft and wet like something breathing through broken teeth.
"Chris…" the voice rasped.
He choked on his own spit. "Who are you?" he whispered.
A laugh — thin and distant. Then words that crawled under his skin like ants.
"You shouldn't have given me away."
The line went dead. The screen stayed on. A new message appeared:
Unknown Number: Check your door.
Before he could turn, something knocked. Once. Twice.
And then the door creak