Lost Phone Part 2

Saturday Evening, December 12th, 2009
(Lars – 23-year-old Journalism Student)

Man, it was cold.

That kinda cold that cuts straight through your jacket like it don’t care how many layers you got on. Hands stuffed in my pockets, I kept my head down, just tryna get home. Then I saw ‘em—flashing red and blue lights bouncing off the trees up ahead.

Now, I don’t go looking for trouble, but trouble got a way of making itself real obvious. And police lights? That meant something went down.

So, of course, I had to see what’s up.

As I got closer, I peeped the whole scene—an ambulance parked on the curb, cops moving around, their radios buzzing with static. And right in the middle of it? A woman, damn near breaking down, clutching onto a paramedic like she was hanging on for dear life.

She was wrecked.

Something bad had happened. And bad things meant stories.

I worked the campus paper. A local tragedy like this? Could be front page material. Maybe even something bigger if I played my cards right.

Then, just as I stepped off the sidewalk, something caught my eye.

A phone.

It was half-buried in the grass, screen cracked but still holding on. I bent down, wiped the dirt off, and tapped the screen.

It flickered—just for a second. Black background. No lock screen. No notifications. Then it died again.

I looked around. Nobody was paying attention. Cops too busy. The lady too lost in her grief.

I glanced back at the phone.

This could be something.

Whoever that girl was—the one lying still on that stretcher—this might be her phone. And if I wanted to know what happened to her… I just might have the key sitting in my hand.

I slid it into my pocket.

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I wasn’t tryna look suspicious, so I hung back, scanning faces. Then I spotted somebody I actually knew—Steve.

Steve wasn’t just some random cop. We went to high school together. Ain’t like we were boys or anything, but we chopped it up at parties a few times. He was one of those dudes who always seemed cool with everybody.

If anybody would spill a little info, it’d be him.

I walked up, nodding toward the scene. “Damn, Steve. This looks serious.”

He turned, eyes flicking over me before recognition kicked in. “Lars? Man, what you doin’ here?”

I shrugged. “Just passing through, saw the lights. What’s up?”

He hesitated for a second, then sighed. “Yeah… it’s bad, man. Real bad.”

I played it cool, hands still in my pockets. “What happened?”

Steve looked over at the crying woman, then leaned in slightly. “Some girl… she just collapsed. No injuries, no signs of a struggle. Just—boom. Out cold.”

I frowned. “Wait, what? Like a medical thing?”

He shook his head. “That’s the thing. Paramedics checked her. No wounds, no drugs, nothin’. But she ain’t waking up.” He exhaled. “They think she had a heart attack.”

“A heart attack?” I repeated, my face twisting up. “Bro, how old is she?”

“Like… sixteen? Seventeen?” Steve muttered. “Way too young for something like that. Paramedics say it don’t make sense. Her mom’s the one who found her, called 911. But she’s—” He nodded toward the woman still sobbing. “She’s not really answering questions right now.”

I watched her for a second. Damn. The kind of pain on her face? That wasn’t just grief. That was shock.

“Man,” I exhaled. “You think somebody chased her? Maybe she ran herself into the ground or something?”

Steve scratched his head. “No idea. We checked the area—no footprints, no signs of struggle. Nobody saw nothin’.”

I nodded slowly, but my mind was already racing.

No struggle. No wounds. No drugs.

But a heart attack? Outta nowhere?

Didn’t sit right with me.

And then there was the phone in my pocket.

Maybe the cops didn’t have answers. Maybe even her own mom didn’t know what happened.

But her phone?

That might tell me everything I needed to know.

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Back at my apartment, I kicked the door shut behind me, tossing my keys onto the counter. The place was small—one-bedroom, barely enough space to breathe—but it was mine. The heater was struggling against the cold, making that sad little clicking sound it did when it was trying to keep up.

I slumped into the chair by the kitchen counter, running a hand over my face.

Alright, Lars. Think.

I needed a plan.

I grabbed my coffee maker, dumped in some grounds, and hit brew. The scent filled the kitchen, warm and bitter, like it was gonna help me think clearer or something. Probably not, but whatever.

Leaning against the counter, I pulled the phone from my pocket and turned it over in my hand.

Cracked screen. No branding. No case. Just a black, empty rectangle.

Dead.

Just like its owner.

Or… well, almost dead.

I let out a breath and rubbed my temple. This wasn’t just some curiosity thing anymore. This was a race.

Tomorrow was too late.

The local news would pick it up. Maybe not in the morning, but by Monday? For sure. And by then, my article wouldn’t mean shit. Every outlet would have the girl’s name, the mom’s sob story, a couple of quotes from a detective who didn’t actually know what happened.

Nah. I had to move tonight.

I didn’t even know the girl’s name. No way I could write a piece without that.

I could check the police reports tomorrow, maybe find out from a source. But again, too slow.

I needed something now.

“Fuck this.”

I pushed back from my chair, downed the last of my coffee, and headed straight to my closet. Sitting around trying to hack into a locked phone wasn’t gonna cut it. If I wanted answers—if I wanted this story—I needed to hit the ground running.

I swapped my hoodie for something more presentable, buttoned up a clean shirt, and grabbed my laptop, a notebook, a pen, and the phone, shoving them into my worn-out leather briefcase.

Time to move.

I hurried downstairs, flagged down the first cab I saw, and hopped in.

“Saint Mark’s Hospital,” I told the driver.

I’d been paying attention at the park. The ambulance that picked up the girl had Saint Mark plastered all over it. If she was still alive, that’s where she’d be. And if her family was anywhere, they’d be there too.

Saint Mark’s Hospital – The Waiting Room

The hospital had that same sterile, artificial smell all hospitals did. It wasn’t packed, but there were a handful of people scattered around—some half-asleep in chairs, others watching the news on the old TV mounted in the corner.

But my eyes locked on the ones I was looking for instantly.

A woman pacing back and forth, her movements sharp and tense, like she was running on fumes. Cold expressions. Hollow eyes. She looked exhausted but wired, like she couldn’t shut off even if she tried.

And next to her, a man. Face down, elbows on his knees, mumbling to himself.

The parents.

Had to be.

I adjusted my bag, straightened my back, and walked toward them. Slow, but steady.

“Excuse me,” I started, keeping my voice low and careful. “I just wanted to say—I’m really sorry about what happened. I hope she pulls through.”

The mother barely looked at me, but she stopped pacing.

The father didn’t move.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the phone. “I, uh… I found this at the park,” I said, offering it forward. “I thought maybe you’d want it. A keepsake, you know? Or—if you need help unlocking it, I can—”

Before I could even finish, the mother cut me off.

“That’s not Nora’s phone.”

My brain blanked.

“What?”

She crossed her arms, her voice flat and distant. “That’s not my daughter’s phone. I have her phone in my coat pocket.”

I just stood there, holding the phone like a damn idiot.

My heart slammed once, real hard, like my body had just realized something wasn’t right.

Not her phone?

Then whose phone was this?

I swallowed, suddenly feeling way more aware of the weight in my palm.

The mother looked at me now, really looked at me, her tired eyes narrowing just slightly. “Who are you?” she asked. “Do you know my daughter?”

The father finally lifted his head from his hands, his bloodshot eyes locking onto me. He didn’t say a word, but the look on his face said choose your next sentence very carefully.

I had about two seconds to decide whether to lie, tell the truth, or get the hell out of there.

I took a breath, steadying myself. No sudden moves, no sketchy energy. Just keep it simple.

“No... I don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I happened to be crossing the park when I saw the cops and first aid there. I found the phone nearby, but I felt… I don’t know, awkward about approaching.” I glanced at the mother, trying to read her, but she was unreadable. Just cold. Tired in a way that went beyond exhaustion.

“But I felt like it was the right thing to do,” I continued. “To bring the phone to you… well, if it was hers, that is.”

The mother just nodded, like she wasn’t really listening anymore. She turned away, arms still crossed, her attention back on the floor, on her pacing, on anything but me.

The father, though… he was still looking at me.

Not like he was angry anymore. Just… empty. Like whatever fire had been sitting in his chest waiting to explode had just gone out.

I exhaled slowly. “I hope she pulls through. Really.”

No response.

I took that as my cue to leave.

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I walked toward the exit, my mind racing.

If that ain’t Nora’s phone… then whose is it?

It didn’t make sense. It was right there, at the scene. A phone with no branding, no markings, just existing in the dirt like it was waiting for me to pick it up.

I reached into my pocket, ready to pull it out and just chuck it into the nearest trash can. Probably should’ve done that earlier.

Then it vibrated.

I froze.

The screen lit up.

One word.

"Nora"

My stomach dropped. My hands went ice cold.

The screen flickered. The letters faded out.

Then new ones took their place.

"Lars"

I took a step back.

My breath felt short. My fingers clenched around the phone.

The damn thing knew my name.

Then, just as quickly as they appeared, they faded.

For a second, the phone went dark.

Then new words.

"Take me to Nora, Lars."

My throat went dry.

I took a shaky breath, glancing around like maybe—just maybe—someone could explain what the hell I was looking at. But the street was empty except for the occasional car passing by, headlights sweeping across the pavement.

I turned back to the phone. The screen was already black again.

No notifications. No messages. Nothing.

Just silence.

I exhaled, running a hand over my face.

Okay. Okay. What the fuck is this?

This phone wasn’t supposed to work. It was dead. I had seen it with my own eyes.

Yet here it was, lighting up like it had something to say.

And not just something. Something directed at me.

I should’ve walked away. I should’ve thrown the damn thing into the street and been done with it.

But I didn’t.

Because some part of me—some stupid, reckless part of me—needed to know.

I needed to know who this phone belonged to. I needed to know why it had my name.

And most of all…

I needed to know why it wanted me to take it to Nora.

Nope.

This wasn’t happening.

I stared at the phone in my hand for half a second longer before my fingers snapped open, letting it drop onto the pavement. Without hesitating, I kicked it—hard—sending it skidding onto the street.

A second later, a car rolled over it with a heavy crunch.

Then another.

I stood there, watching as the glass shattered, the frame bent, and whatever power it had inside was reduced to nothing.

Fuck this story. Fuck this phone.

I turned away, shoved my hands in my pockets, and walked toward the nearest cab stand.

Home – 2:37 AM

I barely remembered the ride home. My head was a mess, buzzing with exhaustion and frustration, and I needed to shut it off.

A hot shower.

Yeah. That’d do it.

I let the water run until the steam filled the bathroom, until my skin felt too hot, until I could barely think anymore. And when I finally stepped out, I felt heavier, but a little less wired.

Not relaxed. Not even close.

But drowsy.

That was enough.

I threw on some sweatpants, collapsed into bed, and let the world disappear.

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4:03 AM

A bright light burned through my eyelids.

I groaned, rolling over, trying to escape it—but it was too strong. Like someone was shining a flashlight directly in my face.

Confused, I squinted into the dark room.

Then my body went cold.

The light was coming from my nightstand.

My breath caught in my throat as my eyes adjusted. And the second I saw what was sitting there—what was glowing like it had never been crushed, never been destroyed—my entire body froze.

The phone.

The same fucking phone.

Perfect. Undamaged.

And lit up with the same words.

“Lars, bring me to Nora.”

I shot up from the bed, heart hammering in my chest.

My instincts screamed at me—get away from the phone. Get the hell out of here.

I took a step back, then another, eyes locked on the glowing screen like it might move on its own.

Then I turned, grabbed for the doorknob, and yanked.

Nothing.

I pulled harder. The door wouldn’t budge.

"What the—?"

My hands started shaking. I twisted the knob, slammed my shoulder into the door—nothing. It was like the damn thing had fused into the wall.

The light from the phone flickered.

Then it died completely.

And with it, the entire room went black.

Not the kind of darkness you get when you turn off the lights.

No.

This was thicker. Deeper. Wrong.

Not even the faint glow from outside reached in. No streetlights. No moonlight.

Just nothing.

A pressure built in my chest. My breathing turned shallow. I stretched my hands in front of me, but I couldn’t even see them.

Then—

I felt it.

A touch.

Warm. Right on my shoulder.

Too warm.

My stomach dropped. I couldn’t breathe.

Then a sound.

A whisper. Right in my ear.

Sickly. Filthy. Like whoever it belonged to hadn’t breathed fresh air in years.

"Lars."

My muscles locked. I couldn’t move.

The warmth on my shoulder spread—hotter now. Too hot.

I gasped as a sharp, searing pain tore through my skin.

Then nails—digging in.

I tried to move. I couldn’t.

Tried to scream. Nothing came out.

A deep, burning sensation spread through my body, my skin blistering under the unseen grip.

The whisper came again.

"Take me to Nora."

My vision swam. The pain was overwhelming, ripping through my nerves like fire.

The fingers dug deeper. Deeper.

I couldn’t fight it.

I couldn’t run.

I was going to pass out.

Then everything went black—

Sunday Morning, December 13th, 2009

I jerked awake, gasping for air like I had been drowning in my own sweat. My body was shaking, every muscle in my arms and legs feeling like I had just run for my life.

But it wasn’t a nightmare.

I knew that the second I moved and felt the pain—real, sharp, and deep in my shoulder.

I staggered to my feet, breathing hard, eyes darting around the room. My blankets were soaked, my clothes clinging to my skin, and the air was thick, like something had been in here with me all night.

Then I looked down.

Blood.

Not a lot, but enough. Enough to stain my shoulder, to streak down my arm.

I turned toward my mirror, hesitating before lifting my shirt.

The breath left my lungs.

The marks were still there.

Deep, raw wounds. Fingernail marks.

Torn skin, like something had gripped me and refused to let go.

My head started spinning. My stomach twisted.

This wasn’t a dream.

It happened.

I felt sick.

I stumbled back, slamming against the nightstand, knocking over a glass of water. My breathing was coming too fast.

The pain came all at once, like my body had finally caught up to what happened. Burning. Throbbing. Deep.

I clenched my jaw, my whole body trembling.

Then the fear hit me.

What should I do?

I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t even form a full thought.

But one thing was clear.

That phone—that thing—wanted me to take it back to Nora.

And I couldn't do that.

I wouldn’t.

That girl was already on the edge of death. Even if she miraculously survived, another interaction with this… this thing… would end her for sure.

This wasn’t just about a tragedy anymore.

This wasn’t just a story.

That phone did this to her.

It scared her to death.

And now…

It was trying to do the same to me.

I pressed my palm over my shoulder, wincing at the pain. My head was pounding.

I couldn't give it to her.

No matter how much it wanted me to.

Because if I did…

That would make me a murderer.

And I wasn’t about to let that happen.

For almost two hours, I just sat there, staring at the damn thing.

My mind was fried, going in circles, trying to figure out what the hell to do next.

But everything felt hopeless.

Because who the hell do you even tell about something like this?

A cursed phone? Some possessed-ass device that knows my name and burns through my skin?

Who would even believe that?

Simple answer—nobody.

This wasn’t something I could throw on Twitter. Wasn’t something I could drop in a group chat. If I told someone, best-case scenario? They’d think I lost my damn mind. Worst case? They’d be right.

I ran my hands over my face, exhaling hard.

I needed air.

I needed to get out of this apartment before I lost it completely.

I grabbed my jacket, shoved the phone deep into my pocket, and stepped out.

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The cold air hit different now.

A few hours ago, it was just cold. Now, it felt like something was pressing down on me, sitting in my chest, watching.

I walked. Let my feet just carry me, no real destination.

Until I ended up right back where this all started.

The park.

The place where I found the phone.

The place where Nora collapsed.

The place where everything went to shit.

I stepped onto the damp grass, looking around, searching.

For what? I didn’t even know.

Some kind of clue?

Some reason for all this?

But of course—nothing.

Just a park.

Just empty benches, dead leaves, a playground that looked creepy as hell in the dark.

Nothing that screamed hey, this is the source of your living nightmare.

I dragged a hand down my face.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” I muttered.

I needed to think, Lars. THINK.

Noon crept in, and I still hadn’t come up with a damn thing.

No leads. No explanations. No way out of this shit.

One thought started creeping in. Maybe I shouldn’t go home.

What if whatever was happening was tied to me, not my apartment?

Maybe—just maybe—if I stayed somewhere else, it wouldn’t follow me.

I ran through my options.

Parents?
No. Hell no. My mom was the type to see straight through me, and my dad… well, I didn’t need him asking a million questions I didn’t have answers to.

A hotel?
Not exactly rolling in cash, and even if I was, I didn’t like the idea of being alone.

Old roommates?
Now that could work.

I pulled out my phone—my phone, not the cursed one—and scrolled through my contacts until I landed on a familiar name.

Jonathan.

We used to share an apartment back in college before I got my own place. We weren’t best friends, but we got along, and I knew he still had a spare room.

I hit call.

“Yo, Lars! What’s good, man?” Jonathan’s voice came through, upbeat as ever.

“Hey, bro. Listen… this is kinda last minute, but I got some renovations going on at my place. Can’t really crash there tonight. You got a spare room available?”

A pause.

Then, “Yeah, man! No problem. You need one night or a couple?”

“Just tonight,” I said quickly.

I wasn’t planning that far ahead. I just needed to get through one night without that thing showing up.

“Cool, cool. Come through anytime, man. I’ll be home after six.”

“ I’ll see you then.”

I hung up, exhaling for the first time in what felt like hours.

out shadows across the pavement. 7 PM.

The second I knocked, the door swung open.

“Yo, look who it is!” Jonathan grinned, pulling me into a quick bro hug.

Right behind him, Boris leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like he was about to roast the hell out of me. Same old Boris.

“Lars, my man. You finally realized you miss us, huh?”

I chuckled, stepping inside. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get too excited. I ain’t moving back in.”

Boris snorted. “Shame. We were about to start charging a cover fee for old roommates.”

It felt… good to be here.

Even though I had zero sleep, even though my shoulder still ached like hell, being around these two made things feel normal again.

At least for a little while.

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Jonathan clapped his hands together. “Alright, listen. No way we’re just chilling here all night. We’re hitting the bars.”

“Damn right,” Boris added, already grabbing his coat. “We gotta celebrate. It’s been too long, bro.”

I hesitated for a split second—then nodded.

Fuck it.

I needed a distraction. Something to shake the weight off my chest. A few drinks, some old stories, just a regular-ass night without thinking about that phone.

And that’s exactly what we did.

We hit a couple bars, laughed about dumb shit from college, talked about work, relationships, and how much we missed not having rent to pay.

For a while, I actually felt like myself again.

By the time we stumbled back to the apartment, it was 3:30 AM.

I felt buzzed, full, and exhausted—the good kind of exhausted.

Jonathan tossed me a pillow. “Guest room’s all yours, man. Just like old times.”

I grinned, stepping inside. The room was almost exactly how I left it—except now, it had a nicer bed and a couple of neatly folded blankets on a chair. It felt familiar. Safe.

For the first time in days, I thought maybe—just maybe—I’d actually get some sleep.

I kicked off my shoes, crawled into bed, and closed my eyes.

And just as I started to drift off—

Jonathan and Boris barged in, grinning like they were on a damn mission.

Jonathan held up a bottle of whiskey. Boris had a bag of chips, shaking it like it was a prize.

"Hey, OLD MAN, you didn’t think you were gonna sleep tonight, did you?"

I groaned, rubbing my face, but I couldn’t help the smile creeping in.

“Of course not.”

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We crashed on the couch, whiskey glasses in hand. Boris poured for all three of us, filling them a little too high, but who as I to complain?

“To old times,” Jonathan said, raising his glass.

“And to Lars finally remembering we exist,” Boris added, smirking.

I rolled my eyes but clinked my glass with theirs.

We drank. Talked about nothing and everything.

The energy was light, easy—like we had all just paused time for a few hours, like life hadn’t gotten messy.

Then, after a few more drinks, Jonathan squinted at me.

"Yo, what happened to your shoulder, man?"

I blinked at him. "What?"

Boris leaned forward, frowning. "Yeah, dude. You got a scratch or something? You’re bleeding through your shirt."

Shit.

My stomach twisted.

I looked down—sure enough, a faint red stain was showing through my shirt near my shoulder.

For a second, I just stared at it, my mind blank.

I hadn’t even realized it was still bleeding.

Jonathan gave me a look. "Dude, what the hell happened? You get in a fight or something?"

I opened my mouth, but I had nothing.

What the fuck was I supposed to say?

“Oh yeah, bro, some invisible thing with burning-hot claws tried to rip into me because I won’t hand over a haunted phone?”

Yeah. That’d go over well.

So I went with the first thing that came to mind.

“Nah, just… a stupid accident. Scraped against something sharp.”

They didn’t believe me. I could see it in their faces.

But they didn’t push.

I forced a chuckle, tried to shake off the tension. "Well, let me clean up and be right back."

I tried to stand up.

The room spun.

A dizzy, nauseating wave crashed over me, the kind that doesn’t just come from drinking.

"Damn… too much alcohol," I joked, gripping the edge of the couch.

But something was wrong.

The light in the room seemed to fade, like someone was slowly dimming reality itself.

Too dark.

Way too dark.

Jonathan said something.

Or at least—I think it was Jonathan.

But his voice was off.

Like it was coming from the wrong place. Like the room itself was whispering, stretching his words into something twisted.

"Why do you lie to your friends, Lars?"

The voice slithered around me, curling into my ears like thick smoke.

"Why don’t you say the truth?"

My breath caught.

I tried to speak—nothing came out.

The darkness grew deeper, swallowing the room, snuffing out every trace of light.

Then—I couldn’t see anything.

Not the couch. Not Boris. Not Jonathan.

Not even my own hands.

I tried to move.

Tried to push myself up.

But then—

Something grabbed me.

**Two hands—sharp, clawed, and burning hot—**clamped around my legs.

A scream tore from my throat—but no sound came.

I couldn’t breathe.

The pain—God, the pain.

I felt the claws digging in, tearing through muscle, flesh, bone—and then—

The burning.

It wasn’t just pain.

It was like fire was pouring into my veins, spreading through me like molten metal.

My stomach twisted. I could smell it.

My own blood.

So vivid. So real.

I sobbed—but it was soundless. Voiceless in the empty darkness.

The nails pierced through my knees, the pain exploding so violently I thought my mind would break apart.

I wanted to move.

I wanted to run.

But I was trapped.

The heat grew unbearable, my skin blistering under its grasp.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

The pain crashed over me—again and again and again—until finally, the darkness won.

And I fainted.

I woke up to sunlight beaming through my window.

My window.

I was back in my apartment.

But I had no memory of getting here.

I tried to move. Pain shot through me instantly.

Not the kind of pain you wake up with after a night of drinking. Something worse.

My legs felt like they had been torn apart and stitched back together with fire.

The smell in the air—metallic, thick, suffocating.

Burnt blood.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as hell. My heart pounded in my chest as the memories came flooding back.

The hands. The claws. The heat. The unbearable, inhuman pain.

I tried to move again—sharp agony lanced through my knees.

I bit down a scream.

What the fuck happened to Jonathan? To Boris?

Were they still at the apartment? Did they see anything?

Do they even remember?

It took everything in me, but after a few tries, I managed to stand up.

Legs trembling, I stumbled out of my room, and of course—

The phone was still there.

Sitting on my nightstand, untouched.

Waiting.

Something’s Wrong

I pushed past it, limping into the living room. Every step felt like my body was fighting against itself.

I collapsed onto the sofa, feeling like I had run a marathon through hell.

I grabbed the remote, turned on the TV—maybe something was on the news.

Maybe someone else saw whatever the hell happened last night.

The screen flickered to life.

A familiar set. A roundtable of hosts laughing over coffee.

The Sunday Morning Show.

My brows furrowed. That’s not right.

That show aired weekly, every Sunday.

But today was Monday.

I knew it was Monday. I remembered Monday.

I snatched my phone off the coffee table and checked the date.

Sunday.

My stomach dropped.

This can’t be real.

I had already lived through Sunday.

I had gone to Jonathan’s place. Gone drinking. Talked about work. Woke up in their guest room—

And then…

Everything went to hell.

I stared at the date on my phone. Did I go back?

Did I lose an entire day?

Did I ever leave that darkness?

Then, my phone buzzed.

A new message.

Unknown Number.

I hesitated, then tapped it open.

"Lars, take me to Nora."

My hands clenched around the phone, my breathing ragged.

I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

I typed out a reply, my fingers shaking with anger.

"Fuck you. I will never do it. No matter what."

I hit send.

Then—everything went black.

Not the kind of black that comes when you blink.

Not the kind when the lights go out.

This was absolute nothingness.

Final. Permanent.

And this time, I knew—

It was forever.