Writers 
At exactly 11:47 p.m., Amara received a message from her own number.
DON’T OPEN THE DOOR.
She stared at the screen.
Then came another message.
NO MATTER WHO KNOCKS.
Amara sat up slowly in bed.
She checked the number.
It was hers.
Same profile picture. Same contact name.
She laughed nervously.
“Okay… this isn't funny.”
She was spending the weekend at her aunt's old house because her parents had travelled and her aunt had asked her to keep an eye on the place.
The house was huge, quiet, and honestly a little creepy.
But Amara wasn't scared.
At least, she wasn't scared until she heard three knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
From downstairs.
Her phone vibrated again.
DON'T ANSWER.
Amara's heart began pounding.
“Who is there?” she called.
Silence.
Then another knock.
This time, it came from her bedroom door.
Amara froze.
Her bedroom door was right in front of her.
She hadn't heard anyone climb the stairs.
She slowly reached for her phone.
Another message appeared.
I TOLD YOU NOT TO OPEN IT.
The doorknob turned.
Amara jumped back.
“Who are you?”
A girl's voice answered from the other side.
“Amara?”
Her eyes widened.
She knew that voice.
It belonged to her cousin, Zara.
But Zara was supposed to be in Abuja.
“Zara?”
“Yes. Open the door.”
Amara moved toward the door.
Then she remembered the message.
DON'T OPEN THE DOOR.
She stepped back.
“How did you get here?”
There was a pause.
“I'll explain. Just open the door.”
Amara stared at the door.
Something didn't feel right.
Then her phone vibrated again.
This time, the message was different.
SHE IS NOT ZARA.
Amara's blood ran cold.
Immediately, the knocking stopped.
For several seconds, there was complete silence.
Then footsteps moved away from the door.
Amara waited.
She didn't sleep for the rest of the night.
The next morning, she called Zara.
“Where are you?”
“Abuja,” Zara replied sleepily.
Amara's stomach dropped.
“Are you sure?”
“Obviously. Why?”
Amara told her everything.
Zara became quiet.
Then she said something that made Amara's hands go cold.
“Amara… that house has a room you're not supposed to enter.”
“What room?”
“Room 17.”
“There's no room 17.”
“Yes, there is.”
Zara lowered her voice.
“It used to be my grandmother's room. After she died, they locked it permanently.”
Amara looked down the hallway.
There were sixteen doors.
She had counted them.
“Where is Room 17?”
Zara hesitated.
“Behind the bookshelf.”
That afternoon, Amara found the bookshelf.
She pushed it.
Nothing happened.
She pushed harder.
The shelf moved slightly.
Behind it was a narrow wooden door.
There was a number carved into it.
17.
Amara's heart raced.
She opened it.
Inside was a tiny room covered in old photographs.
Hundreds of them.
But every photograph showed the same girl.
A girl who looked exactly like Amara.
Same eyes.
Same smile.
Same small scar above her eyebrow.
Amara picked up one photograph.
On the back was a date.
2008.
She stared at the girl.
2008 was the year she was born.
Then she noticed something else.
Every photograph had a different date.
And the final photograph was dated:
September 21, 2026.
Today's date.
Amara's hands began shaking.
She turned the photograph over.
There was a message written on the back.
TONIGHT, SHE WILL COME FOR YOU.
Suddenly, she heard the front door slam downstairs.
Someone had entered the house.
Amara ran out of Room 17 and locked the hidden door behind her.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She answered.
Nobody spoke.
Then she heard breathing.
Slow.
Close.
And finally, a whisper:
“Amara…”
She dropped the phone.
The voice continued through the speaker.
“You weren't supposed to find Room 17.”
Amara ran downstairs.
The front door was locked.
All the windows were locked.
There was nobody inside.
Then she saw something on the dining table.
A photograph.
She picked it up.
It showed her standing in front of Room 17.
But the photograph had been taken five minutes ago.
Amara looked toward the staircase.
At the top stood a girl.
The same girl from the photographs.
The girl smiled.
“Finally,” she said.
Amara couldn't move.
“Who are you?”
The girl slowly walked down the stairs.
“My name is Amara.”
Amara shook her head.
“No. My name is Amara.”
The girl smiled again.
“I know.”
She stopped in front of her.
“That's why they chose you.”
“Who?”
The girl pointed toward Room 17.
“Everyone in this family knows the truth.”
Amara's voice trembled.
“What truth?”
The girl reached into her pocket and handed her an old photograph.
It showed two babies.
Twins.
On the back were two names.
Amara.
Zara.
Amara stared at it.
“We were twins?”
The girl nodded.
“You were the one they kept.”
“And you?”
The girl's smile disappeared.
“I was the one they forgot.”
Amara looked at her carefully.
“But Zara is my cousin.”
The girl nodded.
“Exactly.”
Suddenly, Amara understood.
The messages.
The photographs.
Room 17.
The girl wasn't trying to hurt her.
She had been trying to warn her.
Then the front door opened.
Zara walked inside.
She looked at Amara.
Then at the girl.
Her face went pale.
“You found her.”
Amara stepped backward.
“Zara… what is going on?”
Zara didn't answer.
The girl beside Amara whispered:
“Ask her why she has been pretending to be your cousin.”
Zara's eyes filled with tears.
And then she said the words Amara would never forget:
“Because if you found out who you really are, they would come back for you.”
THE END.
