the last seen online

At 2:17 a.m., Aarav’s phone vibrated.

Unknown Number:

“I can see you.”

He frowned. Probably one of his friends trying to scare him. He lived alone in a rented room on the edge of town. The street outside was silent, streetlight flickering like it was struggling to stay alive.

Aarav typed back:

“Very funny. Who is this?”

The reply came instantly.

“Behind you.”

His heartbeat skipped. Slowly, he turned around.

Nothing.

Just the old wooden cupboard. The half-open window. The curtain gently moving in the cold breeze.

He laughed nervously. “Grow up,” he muttered to himself.

The phone buzzed again.

A photo.

It was him. Sitting on his bed. Taken from the corner of the room near the ceiling.

His hands began to shake.

That angle… it wasn’t possible. There was nothing in that corner except peeling paint and a tiny crack spreading across the wall.

He looked up.

The crack seemed longer.

Another message.

“You missed a spot.”

The lights suddenly went out.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Aarav jumped up, using his phone screen as a flashlight. The battery was at 3%.

He moved toward the switchboard, but the door creaked open on its own.

Cold air rushed in.

His phone buzzed again.

Battery 2%.

Another photo.

This time, it showed him standing in the dark — but the picture was taken from behind him.

Someone was inside the room.

Breathing.

Slow. Close.

Right at his ear.

His phone slipped from his hand and hit the floor. The screen cracked, but it stayed on.

1%.

One last message appeared:

“You’re last seen at 2:19 a.m.”

The battery died.

In the morning, the landlord unlocked the door after neighbors complained about a loud thud in the night.

The room was empty.

Bed untouched. Window locked from inside.

Only one thing was strange.

On the wall, stretching from the ceiling to the floor, was a long crack.

And inside it — barely visible in the darkness — something moved.

Aarav’s phone was found under the bed.

Fully charged.

Still online.

By evening, the story had spread through the building. Missing tenant. Locked room. No sign of forced entry.

The landlord swore the window had been bolted from inside. The police found nothing except Aarav’s phone — lying under the bed, screen unbroken, battery at 100%.

But there was one detail they didn’t tell anyone.

The phone was still connected to Wi-Fi.

And at 2:17 a.m., it vibrated again.

Inspector Mehra stayed inside the room alone that night. He didn’t believe in ghost stories. Cracks in walls? Old buildings settle. Missing people? They run away.

At 2:16 a.m., the streetlight outside began to flicker.

At 2:17 a.m., the phone lit up on the floor.

Unknown Number:

“You came.”

Mehra’s jaw tightened. “Trace the number,” he whispered into his recorder.

Another message appeared.

“Look at the wall.”

The crack had grown wider. Not broken — wider. Like something inside was pressing against it.

Mehra stepped closer. The air felt colder near the wall, as if the crack were breathing.

The phone buzzed again.

A photo.

It showed Mehra standing in front of the wall — but from inside the crack.

His face drained of color.

Slowly, very slowly, something dark shifted behind the thin layer of plaster. Not a shadow. Not a trick of light.

An eye opened.

From inside the wall.

Mehra stumbled back. “Who’s there?” His voice sounded small in the empty room.

The reply came immediately.

“You are.”

The crack split further with a dry tearing sound. A long, pale hand pushed through — fingers bending at unnatural angles.

Mehra ran for the door.

It wouldn’t open.

The phone slid across the floor by itself, stopping at his feet.

2:19 a.m.

Another message.

“Last seen.”

The lights burst.

Silence.

The next morning, the landlord found the room locked again.

No Inspector Mehra.

No broken wall.

Just a faint, thin crack — smaller than before.

And two phones under the bed.

Both fully charged.

Both showing the same status:

Online.

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