The digital clock on Logan’s desk clicked over to 2:47 AM.
Logan rubbed his eyes, the blue light of his laptop screen stinging his retinas. He was a freelance video editor, accustomed to the graveyard shift, but tonight the silence in his suburban house felt unusually heavy. The only sound was the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator downstairs.
Buzz.
His phone vibrated on the desk, startling him.
Notification: Your food delivery is nearby! Driver "S. M." is arriving in a black sedan.
Logan frowned. He hadn't ordered any food.
He picked up the phone, intending to open the app and report the error, but before he could, a second text flashed across the screen. It was from an unknown, unlisted number.
Unknown: I’m outside.
A cold prickle of unease traced its way down Logan's spine. He stood up, leaving his study, and walked down the darkened hallway to the front staircase. He didn't turn on the lights—years of living alone had taught him the layout of his house by heart.
He crept to the large bay window in the living room and parted the heavy curtains just a fraction of an inch.
The street was dead. Under the pale amber glow of the solitary streetlight, a rusted, matte-black sedan sat idling. Its headlights were switched off, but the exhaust coughed thin gray plumes into the chilly night air.
No one got out of the car.
Buzz.
Unknown: Why aren't you opening the door, Logan? It’s getting cold.
Logan’s breath hitched. How did they know his name? Delivery apps masked customer names, and besides, he hadn’t ordered anything.
With trembling fingers, he typed back:
Logan: You have the wrong house. Get off my property or I’m calling the police.
He kept his eyes glued to the black sedan. Through the tinted windshield, he could barely make out the silhouette of a driver. Then, he saw the faint, ghostly glow of a phone screen illuminate the driver's face.
The driver was looking straight at Logan’s window. Even from this distance, Logan could feel the weight of that unseen gaze.
Buzz.
Unknown: The police won't make it in time. Besides, I already left it on your porch.
Logan swallowed hard. He slowly backed away from the window, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He crept toward the front foyer. The heavy wooden door stood between him and whatever was outside. Standing on his tiptoes, he peered through the tiny brass peephole.
The porch was empty.
No bag of food. No box. No one standing there.
Just the empty concrete steps bathed in the yellow porch light.
Logan let out a shaky breath, a wave of relief washing over him. It was a prank. It had to be a stupid, elaborate prank by one of his friends. He reached for his phone to call the police anyway, just to be safe.
But as he unlocked the screen, a new text message popped up.
Unknown: Not the front porch, Logan.
Logan froze. His blood turned to ice.
Not the front porch.
If the driver was parked at the front of the house, and the package wasn't on the front porch...
Slowly, Logan turned around. He looked down the dark hallway, past the kitchen, toward the back of the house where the glass sliding doors led to the secluded, tree-lined backyard.
Buzz.
Unknown: The back porch. I like the view from the woods.
In the absolute silence of the house, Logan heard it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was the sharp, rhythmic sound of fingernails tapping against the glass of the back sliding door.
Logan panicked. He sprinted back up the stairs, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet. He locked himself in his master bedroom, throwing his weight against the door, sliding his heavy oak dresser in front of it to barricade it shut.
His hands shook so violently he almost dropped his phone. He dialed 911.
“911, what is your emergency?” a calm voice answered.
"There's someone in my yard—they're trying to get into my house! They're texting me, they know my name, please send help!" Logan gasped, tears of sheer terror blurring his vision.
“Sir, stay calm. I am dispatching officers to your location. Can you confirm your address?”
Logan gave his address, his eyes locked on the bedroom door.
“An officer is on the way, sir. Please stay on the line and find a safe place to hide.”
"Okay... okay, I'm in my bedroom. I barricaded the door," Logan whispered.
Suddenly, his phone screen blinked. He had call waiting.
It was the unknown number.
He ignored it, but his phone buzzed again, a new text banner sliding down from the top of his screen over his active emergency call.
Unknown: I'm inside.
Logan’s heart stopped. "They're inside," he whispered to the 911 operator. "I think they broke a window downstairs."
“Sir, the officers are two minutes away. Just stay hidden,” the operator urged.
Then, Logan heard it.
It wasn't the sound of breaking glass. It wasn't the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
It was a low, muffled buzzing sound.
It was coming from inside his bedroom.
Specifically, from the dark, cavernous depths of his walk-in closet, just three feet to his left.
Logan’s eyes dilated in horror. He slowly turned his head toward the half-open closet door.
From the pitch-black darkness of the closet, a faint, blue light flickered to life. A phone screen.
As Logan watched, paralyzed, a pale, scarred hand reached out of the darkness, holding the glowing phone. The screen displayed a text conversation.
The last message sent was: I'm inside.
A second later, a new message was typed out in real time. Logan's phone vibrated in his hand.
Unknown: Look up.
