When she woke up, there were 17 voicemails from a stranger... 

At first, the number meant nothing to her. A glitch, maybe. Some drunk man fumbling through contacts in the dead of night. She rubbed her eyes, still hazy from the kind of shallow sleep where dreams rotted into static, and pressed play.


The First message was a slurred apology, a man's voice: "Sorry wrong number, I think." The second was laughter, low and awkward. "You sound like someone I knew. Don't hang up on me. I'll call back."


By the third message, she had already swung her legs from the sheets and padded across the cold floor. The voice followed her as she stumbled to the bathroom with her phone on her hand. I Just wanted to hear you breathe,"it said, almost tender.

The sound of running water was no comfort. She bent over the sink, splashing her face, trying to shake off the damp fog in her head. The phone buzzed again, it's speaker trembling on the porcelain shelf.


Message four: "You don't know me, but I know you. You leave the light in your hallway on when you sleep." Her throat tightened. She sat down on the toilet, staring at the faint shadow beneath the bathroom door, as though it might shift or lengthen into something unnatural. The messages kept coming, a relentless tide she couldn't stem. Message seven, while she dressed: "You looked beautiful in that red coat yesterday."Message nine, as she brushed on her makeup with trembling hands: "Don't cover your face. You're prettier without it."Message ten, while she chewed a croissant she suddenly couldn't taste: "You eat alone too much. I'll fix that."


By now her chest was wired with panic, a taut string ready to snap. She tried to tell herself it was coincidence, the drunk rambling of some lunatic with nothing better to do. But the precision in the words, the scalpel cuts of detail, no drunk could conjure those. She swalloed hard, crumbs dry in her throat, and let the next voicemail play.


Message Eleven came as she leaned against the kitchen counter, her palms clammy against the cool surface. "You lock your door twice," The man said. "That won't help."


Message Twelve arrived before she could even exhale. "You look at the peephole too much. You're like a bird fluttering against glass, thinking no one sees." She glanced at the peephole, heart hammering, nothing there. Just an empty hallway. Message Thirteen again, a sickly tilt in his voice: "You eat alone too much. I'll fix that. You don't have to be caged anymore. I'll open the door for you."


Her breath caught, she pressed her hand to the wall, as if the plaster might hold her up. Message Fourteen "Don't scream. The neighbors won't help you. They never do. You already know that."


Message fifteen, softer, almost like a lover whispering into her ear: I like the way your mind runs circles. You don't know if you're awake or dreaming. It doesn't matter. You're mine in both." She pressed herself against the wall, knees weak. Awake. She was awake, wasn't she? "It makes you easier to watch. Your mind paces circles like a bird in a cage. Beautiful, trapped, hopeless. Don't go to the window, You'll only see me if I want you to."


She freaked out, she pressed herself into a corner of the room feeling the walls closing in on herself. Too afraid to move. There were another two voicemails. Message Sixteen. The words were calm, measured, certain: "Stay inside. Don't open the door. Stay inside. It's safer in the dark."


Her chest tightened. She wrapped her arms around herself and waited, every nerve raw. Then, knocks on the door. She froze. The air pressed down on her, heavy with dread. Slowly, trembling, she walked to the door, each step like wading through water. She opened it.


"Surprise!"


Her family and friends crowded the hallway, holding a cake lit with candles. Balloons bobbed against the ceiling. She laughed, half-sobbing, as the panic drained from her body. They were smiling, cheering, hugging... All of them real. All of them warm. Relief rushed in, sweet and dizzying. She let herself sink into the comfort of their presence, thinking the terror was over. She wandered toward the window, drawn by the golden light of the morning. Outside, the street was calm, empty, almost too still. A breeze stirred the leaves, but nothing moved. Her heart lifted slightly, maybe everything really was fine.

Then she noticed something strange. Her friends and family... had no faces. Blank, featureless skin stretched over where eyes, noses, and mouths should have been. Panic rose like a tidal wave in her chest. She blinked, rubber her eyes and they were still faceless. The cake fell from their hands, smashing onto the floor. Balloons deflated midair. Her surroundings bent and twisted unnaturally, the ceiling sagging, the floor tilting. The walls rippled, giving way like liquid. Her stomach lurched.


Everything fell. Gravity itself seemed to dissolve. Her friends and family collapsed into formless shapes, reaching toward her with silent mouths. The hallway twisted into an endless corridor of shadows and whispers. Her scream died in her throat as the world folded in on itself.


Suddenly, she woke. Her room was quiet. Morning light spilled gently across the floor. She sat up, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. It had been a nightmare, an impossible, twisted dream. She laughed shakily, brushing her hair from her face. "Just a nightmare,"she whispered to herself.


She went through her morning routine as if nothing had happened, shower, breakfast. Coffee. The voicemails gone. The phone was silent. Relief washed over her. Maybe it was truly over this time. Then her phone buzzed, she jumped. One new voicemail.

"You have one voicemail,"The screen said. Her hands trembled as she pressed play. The voice was the same, calm, intimate, terrifying:

"Good morning. You're awake again, and that's exactly what I wanted. I've been watching while you slept, counting, waiting. Sixteen was only the beginning. Seventeen... is where it truly starts. Look outside."


The pulse slammed against her ribs. Slowly, almost instinctively, she turned toward the window. Outside, the street was empty. Too empty. Not a single leaf, not a single shadow. But this time, the light bent unnaturally, colors bleeding at the edges, stretching into impossible shapes. Her neighbors house twisted upward like melting candles. She blinked. Her own reflection in the glass.. smiled back at her, though she wasn't smiling, moving silently. She wanted to run, but her legs refused. Her body felt heavy, pressed down by something unseen.

The voicemail continued, soft and deliberate:


"Do you see now? You cannot wake up from this. Every morning, every movement, every thought... is mine to watch. Sixteen was practice. Seventeen is forever. Welcome to the day that never ends."


She dropped the phone. It clattered onto the floor, vibrating softly like a heartbeat. The walls of her room rippled as if alive. The floor warped beneath her feet. Her own reflection grinned wider, a predator in her body. And then, the last thing she heard before everything went silent was the voice whispering directly in her ear, though no one was there and the 17nth message echoed in the back:


"Sleep was a gift. Now the waking is mine." She screamed, and the world dissolved into black.