Cynthia had the unsettling feeling that the night was watching her.
It wasn't sudden. It didn't strike like a scream or a nightmare jolting her awake. It came gradually, like a presence easing into the room and settling somewhere just beyond sight. The kind of awareness that made the skin prickle and the air feel heavier, thicker—harder to breathe.
She lay on her bed, flat on her back, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned slowly above her. Each rotation seemed louder than the last. Whirr. Click. Whirr. Click. The sound drilled into her skull until it felt like a countdown to something she wasn't ready for.
Around her, the hostel was sinking into sleep.
Laughter that had floated down the corridor earlier faded into muffled whispers. Doors closed one by one. Footsteps retreated. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once and then went quiet, as if it had remembered something it shouldn't have.
Cynthia swallowed.
Her phone lay beside her pillow, face-down.
She hadn't touched it in nearly an hour.
She didn't want to.
Ever since the first package arrived, her phone had stopped being just a phone. It had become a doorway—one that opened without warning, spilling fear and questions she didn't have answers to. It buzzed at odd hours. Lit up on its own sometimes, or so it felt. Each vibration sent a shock through her body, like a warning siren only she could hear.
I know what you did.
The words replayed in her head, clear and merciless.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn't help.
Janet's face surfaced immediately, uninvited.
Not the Janet from old photos or happier days. Not the one who laughed too loudly or stole clothes without asking. This Janet didn't smile. She didn't cry either. She just stared at Cynthia with eyes that seemed to ask a single question over and over again.
Why didn't you stop it?
Cynthia rolled onto her side and pulled the blanket tighter around herself, curling inward like a child trying to disappear. "Stop," she whispered into the darkness. Her voice sounded too loud in the silent room, brittle and thin.
She didn't know who she was talking to.
The memories.
The guilt.
Or whatever had decided she didn't deserve peace anymore.
Across the room, a mattress creaked softly.
Cynthia froze.
Her breath caught in her throat as she strained to listen. The sound of fabric shifting. A quiet exhale. Someone turning in their sleep.
Mara.
Cynthia let out a slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Of course it was Mara. Who else would it be?
Mara slept like someone who believed the world was fundamentally good. Like someone who trusted that prayer was enough to keep the darkness at bay. Even now, Cynthia could almost picture her face—calm, untroubled, lips probably parted slightly as she breathed.
Cynthia envied her.
She hadn't slept like that in weeks.
Her phone vibrated.
Once.
Sharp. Sudden.
Cynthia's heart slammed violently against her ribs, so hard it hurt. Her entire body tensed as if preparing for impact. She stared at the phone without moving, convinced that if she touched it, something terrible would happen.
The vibration came again.
Longer this time.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for it. The screen felt cold beneath her touch, colder than it should have been. She turned it over slowly, bracing herself.
No notification preview.
Just the lock screen glowing faintly, illuminating the dark room and reflecting her own face back at her. Pale. Eyes too wide. Lips pressed tightly together, as if holding in a scream.
For a moment, she considered putting it back down. Pretending it hadn't happened. Pretending she was still safe in ignorance.
But ignorance had never protected her before.
She unlocked the phone.
A message appeared instantly, as if it had been waiting for her.
Unknown Number:
Do you hear them too?
Cynthia's chest tightened painfully.
Hear who?
Her fingers hovered over the screen, indecisive. She didn't want to respond. Every instinct screamed at her to block the number, to turn off the phone, to wake Mara, to do anything except engage.
But another part of her—smaller, darker—whispered that maybe she deserved this.
She typed slowly.
Cynthia:
Hear who?
The reply came almost immediately.
Unknown Number:
The ones who don't sleep.
A chill slid down her spine.
She glanced around the room, suddenly hyper-aware of every shadow, every corner that the dim light didn't quite reach. The wardrobe loomed against the wall, its door slightly ajar. Her desk chair sat angled toward the bed, as if someone had moved it recently.
Had it always been like that?
Her phone vibrated again.
Unknown Number:
You left her alone.
Cynthia's vision blurred as tears stung her eyes.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "That's not true."
Her fingers moved on their own.
Cynthia:
You don't know what you're talking about.
This time, there was a pause.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She felt ridiculous, lying there terrified by words on a screen, but fear didn't care about logic. Fear fed on uncertainty, and right now uncertainty was all she had.
Then the phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
I know exactly what I'm talking about.
The room felt smaller suddenly. The air thicker.
Cynthia turned toward Mara's bed. She considered waking her, shaking her awake and blurting everything out—the messages, the packages, the nightmares. But the thought stopped her cold.
What would she say?
That someone was tormenting her for something she wasn't even sure she was guilty of?
That sometimes she wondered if the messages were right?
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number:
Do you remember the last thing she said to you?
Cynthia dropped the phone as if it had burned her.
It hit the mattress with a soft thud, the screen still glowing.
The memory surged forward, raw and sharp.
Janet's voice.
Angry. Hurt.
"You always think you're better than me."
Cynthia pressed her hands over her ears, as if that could silence the past. Her breathing came fast and shallow now, panic clawing at her throat.
"I didn't mean it," she whispered into her palms. "I didn't know…"
The phone vibrated again.
She didn't pick it up.
She couldn't.
Minutes passed. Or maybe seconds. Time felt distorted, stretched thin by fear. Eventually, the screen dimmed and went dark.
But the feeling didn't leave.
Cynthia lay there, staring into the shadows, convinced that something had shifted—that by replying, she had opened a door she couldn't close again.
The next morning came too quickly.
Cynthia hadn't slept.
Her eyes burned, heavy and dry, and her head throbbed with a dull ache that pulsed behind her temples. She moved through her morning routine mechanically—brushing her teeth, pulling on her uniform, tying her hair—each action performed without thought.
Mara noticed immediately.
"You look exhausted," she said gently, adjusting her bag over her shoulder.
Cynthia forced a smile. "Didn't sleep well."
Mara hesitated, studying her face. "Bad dreams?"
Cynthia's smile faltered for half a second before she recovered. "Something like that."
Mara nodded slowly, as if filing the answer away for later. She didn't push, but the look in her eyes said she hadn't been convinced.
They walked to class together, the familiar paths feeling strangely unfamiliar. Cynthia jumped at every sudden noise. Laughter from a group of students made her flinch. A slammed door sent her heart racing.
She felt watched.
Not in the obvious way—no footsteps following her, no eyes she could catch staring too long. It was subtler than that. Like the sensation of being observed through glass. Close, but unreachable.
In class, Cynthia barely heard a word the lecturer said. Her phone buzzed in her bag twice, and both times she nearly bolted out of her seat. She didn't check it. She couldn't bring herself to.
At lunch, Alex slid into the seat across from her, his expression warm and familiar.
"You okay?" he asked, brow creasing slightly.
She nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just tired."
He didn't look convinced, but he didn't press. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand lightly. The contact grounded her, just a little.
For a moment, she almost believed everything was fine.
Then she opened her bag to grab her water bottle.
A small envelope lay inside.
Cynthia's breath hitched.
It hadn't been there that morning.
She was sure of it.
Her hands shook as she picked it up. The envelope was plain. No name. No address. Just her initials written neatly on the front.
C.A.
Alex was talking, but his voice faded into a dull hum as the world narrowed down to the object in her hands.
"Cynthia?" he said, noticing her expression. "What's wrong?"
She shook her head slowly. "Nothing. I just… I need some air."
She stood abruptly, nearly knocking her chair over, and walked away before he could stop her.
Outside, she leaned against the wall and tore the envelope open with trembling fingers.
Inside was a single photograph.
Her knees nearly gave out.
It was an old picture. One she hadn't seen in years.
Her and Janet.
Standing close. Smiling.
Taken on the day everything went wrong.
On the back, written in the same neat handwriting:
Some memories don't stay buried.
Cynthia slid down the wall and sat on the ground, clutching the photograph to her chest as tears streamed silently down her face.
Whatever was happening wasn't stopping.
It was escalating.
And deep down, she knew something worse was coming.
Something that would follow her no matter where she ran.