Writers 
THE MESSAGE AT 3:17 AM
There are messages you receive and forget.
There are messages you receive and regret.
And then there are messages that arrive at 3:17 AMβwhen the world is asleep, the streets are silent, and your phone suddenly becomes the only thing standing between you and a truth you were never supposed to discover.
Mine arrived on a Tuesday morning.
At exactly 3:17 AM.
I remember the time because, for some reason, the numbers burned themselves into my memory.
I was lying awake in my room, staring at the ceiling while rain whispered against the window. The electricity had gone out nearly an hour earlier, leaving the house submerged in darkness. My mother and younger brother were asleep down the hallway, unaware that anything was about to change.
Thenβ
BZZZT.
My phone vibrated.
I reached for it lazily, expecting one of the useless notifications that usually interrupted my sleep.
Instead, I saw a message from an unknown number.
UNKNOWN:
Are you awake?
I frowned.
Who sends a message at 3:17 in the morning?
I typed:
ME:
Who is this?
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared.
Appeared again.
Disappeared.
My heartbeat quickened.
Finally, another message arrived.
UNKNOWN:
You need to listen carefully.
I sat upright.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
The rain outside seemed louder. Every creak from the hallway sounded deliberate, as though the house itself had begun paying attention.
I typed again.
ME:
Listen to what?
Three dots appeared.
Then the reply came.
UNKNOWN:
Before 4:00 AM, go to the old library.
I stared at the screen.
The old library had been abandoned for years.
Nobody went there anymore.
Not since the fire.
I almost laughed, assuming it was some ridiculous prank. But before I could put my phone down, another message appeared.
UNKNOWN:
Do not tell your mother.
My smile disappeared.
How did this person know my mother?
I swallowed.
ME:
Who are you?
This time, there was no typing indicator.
Only silence.
I waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Then my phone vibrated again.
A photograph appeared.
I opened it.
My blood ran cold.
It was a picture of my house.
Taken from outside.
At night.
The photograph showed my bedroom window.
My bedroom window.
And beneath it was another message:
UNKNOWN:
I can see your light.
I immediately turned toward the window.
The curtains were slightly open.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Then I slowly reached forward and pulled them shut.
My hands were trembling.
I wanted to wake my mother. I wanted to call the police. I wanted to convince myself that someone was playing a cruel joke.
Then another message arrived.
UNKNOWN:
You have 32 minutes.
I checked the time.
3:28 AM.
Thirty-two minutes until four.
I didn't understand why, but something inside me told me that staying in my room was more dangerous than leaving it.
I grabbed my jacket, slipped my phone into my pocket, and quietly opened the bedroom door.
The hallway was dark.
I took one step.
Then another.
Just as I reached the front door, my phone vibrated again.
I froze.
The new message contained only five words:
UNKNOWN:
Don't go to the library.
I stared at the screen, confused.
A second message arrived immediately.
UNKNOWN:
It's a trap.
My heart pounded.
Then the final message appeared.
UNKNOWN:
I'm already inside your house.
I slowly raised my eyes.
From somewhere upstairs came the sound of a door opening.
Creak.
I wasn't alone.
And whoever had been texting meβ¦
β¦was no longer outside.
They were inside.
With me.
