In the middle of the night, my girlfriend sent me a chilling message: “I just looked out the peephole, and there’s a maniac with a knife in the hallway! He’s going crazy and killing people! He noticed me! He’s trying to get in!” I panicked and immediately texted her back: “No matter what, don’t open the door. I’m coming over right now.” I rushed to get back to her place as quickly as I could. But as I was on my way, she sent me three more messages: “Wait, are you actually coming? I was just kidding! You didn’t take it seriously, did you? Haha.” “There’s no killer, I was just messing with you.” “Go back home!” For a moment, I felt my heart drop. By then, I was already in a cab, my nerves on edge. I saw her messages and texted back, trying to calm myself down: “You almost gave me a heart attack! You should’ve told me right away that you were joking.” Her response was casual, almost dismissive: “How was I supposed to know you’d actually come over? I was just playing around. What’s the big deal? You’re not mad, are you? Haha.” I sighed. “No, it’s fine. I’m just glad you’re okay. But seriously, don’t joke about stuff like this again—it’s scary, especially at night.” She replied: “Okay, I won’t. Haha.” Even though she said it was fine, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling. Just to be sure, I decided to video call her. To my surprise, the call only rang once before she declined it. I texted her immediately: “Why didn’t you answer?” Her reply came quickly: “I’m going to bed—I’m so tired. Haha.” I stared at the screen, unsettled. That “haha” felt off. “What are you laughing about?” I asked. She replied: “Nothing, I’m just in a good mood tonight.” That’s when I started to feel like something was seriously wrong. Normally, my girlfriend was pretty serious—she wasn’t the type to use “haha” or act playful in her texts. A terrifying thought crossed my mind: What if someone else was using her phone? The moment that thought hit me, a chill ran down my spine. I immediately tried calling her again—this time, she didn’t decline the video call, but it rang for a long time without anyone picking up. I switched to a regular phone call. To my surprise, she answered. Her voice sounded tired. “What do you want? I told you, I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted.” I pressed her: “Why didn’t you pick up the video call?” She repeated, almost mechanically: “I’m going to bed. I’m so tired.” Before I could say anything else, she hung up. The cab driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “Hey man, are you okay? You don’t look so good.” I caught my reflection in the mirror—my face was pale, my hands trembling. The sense of dread was overwhelming. I told the driver, “Please, drive faster. I think my girlfriend’s in trouble.” Sensing my urgency, the driver didn’t hesitate. He stepped on the gas and sped toward her apartment. As we drove, I sent her another text: “Say something—anything.” This time, she sent back a voice message. Her voice was flat, almost robotic: “Say what? I told you, I’m going to bed. I’m so tired.” 2 Hearing her voice, I let out a long breath of relief. “Didn’t you say there was a guy with a knife outside your door? You even said he was killing people! You scared the hell out of me.” She texted back: “I told you, it was just a prank. Relax, I was just messing with you.” “That’s really not funny,” I replied, still uneasy. She didn’t respond again. The more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Sure, she’d answered my call earlier, but what if she’d been forced to? What if there really was a knife-wielding maniac, and he had gotten inside? What if he was threatening her, making her pretend everything was fine? Maybe when I called, he had the knife to her throat, and she had no choice but to act normal. As I spiraled, she sent another message: “I’m going to bed. I’m so tired. Just go home.” I started typing a response, but before I could hit send, another message popped up: “Haha.” That “haha” again. Those two letters were driving me insane. Before I left for her place, I had already called the police. Now, I was even more convinced something was wrong, so I called them again. The dispatcher assured me that officers were already en route and would arrive at her apartment complex in about 25 minutes. I asked the driver how long it would take us to get there. He sighed and pointed ahead. “There’s been an accident on the overpass. It’s going to take a while.” My anxiety spiked as I stared out the window at the sea of red brake lights. I tried calling her again, but this time, I sent a video call. It rang for what felt like forever before she declined it again. I texted her: “Let me see you. I’m at your building. If you don’t pick up, I’m coming upstairs.” She started typing immediately, but no new messages came through. At this point, I was barely holding it together. The driver glanced at me. “Look, man, there’s nothing we can do. Even if you got out now, you’d be stuck on this overpass for an hour.” I looked ahead. The overpass was jammed with cars, all crawling forward at a snail’s pace because of the accident. The driver inched forward, but it was agonizingly slow. Finally, a new message came through: “You actually came here?” “Yes, I’m downstairs. I’m coming up!” I replied. Her response came quickly: “Don’t. I have company.” “Who?” “A coworker. You don’t know her. She’s another girl. It’s just… not convenient right now.” I insisted: “Then turn on your camera.” She replied: “We’re all in bed already.” I didn’t dare tell her I had called the police. If someone really had her at knifepoint, I didn’t want to provoke them into doing something reckless. But then, she sent another text: “Did you call the cops?” I froze. She continued: “The building manager just called me. Apparently, the police received a report about a knife-wielding murderer in the hallway outside my apartment. They asked the building manager to confirm it. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was? I had to explain everything to the manager.” “The building manager and security already came to my door. They scolded me for causing trouble. I told you—it was a joke! Why did you take it so seriously?” “Just call the police back and cancel it. You know filing a false report can get you arrested, right?” Her messages kept coming, urging me to cancel the report. The more she texted, the more uneasy I felt. Something still didn’t sit right. She sent another message: “You’re being ridiculous. It’s the middle of the night, and you’re freaking out over some imaginary killer. What’s wrong with you? This is a civilized country. You don’t actually believe there’s a murderer with a knife roaming the halls, do you? It’s absurd!” Just as I was reading her latest message, my phone buzzed with an incoming video call—from her. Oddly enough, instead of calming me, the call made me even more nervous. The driver glanced back at me. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I took a deep breath and hesitated before answering. What if the person on the other end of the call wasn’t her? What if it was the killer, calling me as some sick joke? What if, the moment I answered, I’d be staring at her lifeless, bloodied body? My hands shook as I accepted the call. The video connection lagged for a few seconds because of the bad signal on the overpass. When it finally connected, the room on the other end was dimly lit, with only a bedside lamp casting a faint glow. Her voice came through first: “I told you, I’m tired.” But the camera wasn’t on her—it was pointed at the ceiling. “Let me see you,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. There was a pause. For a moment, I was convinced it wasn’t her on the other end—that the killer had her phone. But then she adjusted the camera, and her face came into view. She was wearing a sheet mask, looking annoyed. “I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted.” She tilted the camera slightly, and I saw another woman in the background, sitting at a vanity in light blue pajamas. “See? My coworker’s here. That’s why I didn’t want you coming up,” she said, sounding exasperated. I sat there, stunned. So there really wasn’t a killer? It had all been a stupid prank? And she hadn’t wanted me to come up because her coworker was staying over? Before I could say anything, she ended the call and sent me a follow-up text: “Happy now?” She attached a photo of her living room. In the picture, the building manager—wearing a baseball cap and holding a clipboard—stood by the door, probably confirming the police report. It seemed like everything was fine. But for some reason, I still couldn’t shake the unease in my chest. 3The driver hesitated before asking cautiously, “Was that your girlfriend on the call? She looked fine. Seems like she was just joking around. Do we still need to go? The traffic’s awful up ahead.” I hesitated. Should I call off the police? Should I just head home? Meanwhile, my girlfriend sent another message: “Cancel the police already! The building manager called me again to confirm the report. This is getting so annoying!” I replied firmly: “I’m almost there, and the police should be there soon too. This could be serious, so I’ll just explain everything to the officers in person.” She didn’t respond immediately. After about half a minute, though, she sent another message: “Don’t you dare come over!” I froze. Just then, my phone vibrated again. It was a message from her younger sister, Jackie: “Hey, are you there yet?” I was taken aback. “Wait, you’re there too?” Jackie replied, sounding anxious: “You’re not there yet? My sister texted me saying there’s a guy with a knife outside her door, so I rushed over!” I froze, confused. “She told you that too?” Jackie pressed on: “Why aren’t you there already? You were closer than me! Don’t tell me you didn’t come.” I quickly explained: “I’m stuck in traffic on the overpass!” Jackie’s reply came fast: “Hurry up! Something’s seriously wrong with her!” “She told me it was just a joke,” I replied, my hands starting to tremble. “She said not to come over, that she had company, and even FaceTimed me to prove it.” Jackie’s response was sharp: “She said the same thing to me. Told me the guy with the knife wasn’t real, that it was all a joke, and to stay home.” “And?” “Then she told me not to call the police.” I was stunned. “She told you that too?” “Yeah,” Jackie replied. “She’s in trouble. I’m sure of it.” “How can you be so sure?” I asked, my pulse racing. Jackie responded with urgency: “Because we have a code phrase. If she’s ever in danger, she’ll send me this phrase.” “What phrase?” Jackie’s next message sent chills down my spine: “I’m going to sleep. I’m so tired.” My heart stopped. I scrolled back through our messages, my hands shaking. “What do you want? I’m going to sleep. I’m so tired.” “Say something. I’m going to sleep. I’m so tired.” “I’m going to sleep. I’m so tired. Just go home.” I felt a cold sweat break out across my body. She had been begging for help the whole time. Jackie sent another message, sharing her conversation with my girlfriend: Jackie: Is the guy with the knife still outside? Girlfriend: No, I’m going to sleep. I’m so tired. Jackie: I’m on my way over. Girlfriend: Don’t come. I’m going to sleep. I’m so tired. Jackie: Okay, I’ll go back home then. Girlfriend: Yeah, I’m going to sleep. I’m so tired. Jackie texted again: “I’m at the building now, but the front door is locked, and the call box is broken.” She sent a photo of the building’s front entrance. The door was locked tight, and the call box looked like someone had smashed it with a knife. I asked quickly: “You didn’t tell her you were coming, did you?” “No,” Jackie replied. “I’m sure she’s being threatened by that guy, so I didn’t say anything!” “Are you alone?” “Of course not! I brought my boyfriend, Nate. He went to find the building manager and security.” I told her: “Stay hidden somewhere safe. The police should be there soon. I’m still stuck in traffic, but don’t go upstairs alone! That guy could be wandering the halls, and if he sees you…” “I know! I’m waiting for Nate,” she replied. “Has he found anyone yet? If not, let me add him. Send me his contact info.” I had only met Nate twice before, and we didn’t have each other’s numbers. Jackie quickly sent me his profile. His avatar was a cartoon sheep. I sent him a friend request: “Hey, I’m Jackie’s brother-in-law. I’m on my way. Add me.” The request just sat there, unanswered. The driver let out a frustrated sigh as the car crawled forward. The overpass was still a sea of brake lights, and we were barely moving. I messaged Jackie: “Why isn’t Nate adding me?” She didn’t respond immediately. I thought about calling her but worried that a ringing phone might alert the guy with the knife if he was nearby. After a few agonizing minutes, Jackie finally texted back: “It’s bad. Nate just texted me—there’s no one in the property management office.” She sent a short video Nate had taken. The office, marked with a “Building Management” sign, was completely dark. The door was locked, and the lights were off. “What now?” Jackie asked, her panic clear in her typing. “The manager’s not there, and the security guards are nowhere to be found!” I replied: “Tell Nate to stop wandering around and add me already.” “I told him! He’s adding you now. Just wait a second,” Jackie said. I waited tensely, staring at my phone. A notification finally popped up—but it wasn’t Nate accepting my friend request. It was another message from Jackie. “Nate just messaged me. He says he found someone from property management.” 4 “Where did Nate find them?” I asked Jackie. She quickly responded: “He ran into them downstairs near the apartment complex. The property manager was doing rounds, and Nate happened to catch them. He explained everything, and they seemed shocked to hear about a killer in the building. They said it was the first time they’d ever encountered something like this. Nate wants me to meet him in the management office so we can go check on my sister together. The security guard is there too, so we should be fine. Don’t worry, I’ll text you if anything happens.” I panicked and quickly typed: “Wait! Don’t go yet!” While trying to stop her, I scrolled back through my previous messages. When my girlfriend had insisted I cancel the police report earlier, she had said the property manager had already come to her apartment to verify the situation. She’d even sent me a photo of the manager standing in her living room, taking notes with a clipboard. But this raised a critical question: If the property manager had already gone to her apartment to confirm the situation, why would they act surprised when Nate told them about a killer in the building? Shouldn’t they already know about it from my girlfriend? I explained my thoughts to Jackie: **”Listen to me carefully. It doesn’t matter if your sister is being threatened or not. If the property manager actually went to her place, there are only two possible outcomes: 1. She told them the truth—that there’s a blood-covered killer outside her door. 2. She lied because she was being coerced and said the killer was just a prank. Either way, the property manager would have known something was going on. So why would they act completely clueless when Nate told them about it? That’s the biggest red flag here!”** Jackie hesitated but eventually countered: “Maybe my sister was too scared to say anything! Maybe the killer was threatening her, so she couldn’t tell them the truth. That would explain why the property manager didn’t know.” I typed back urgently: “You’re missing the point! Even if she lied to them, the property manager would still know there was some story about a killer in the building. They wouldn’t act like it was the first time they’d heard about it!” As I was explaining this, I remembered something else my girlfriend had said: she claimed the police had contacted the property manager to verify the situation. To confirm, I called the police again. The dispatcher confirmed that they had called the property manager and informed them about the report. This meant one thing: the real property manager was already aware of the situation. The people Nate had met weren’t the property staff at all. My heart raced as I quickly sent Jackie another message: “Don’t go! Those aren’t the real property managers!” But Jackie didn’t reply. I couldn’t wait anymore. Ignoring the risk of my phone’s ringtone attracting attention, I called her directly. The line rang and rang, but no one answered. I tried again. And again. Each time, my calls went unanswered. Finally, as the car inched past the worst of the traffic, I sent her a flurry of messages: “Don’t go to the office!” “Those aren’t the real property managers!” “Please, just respond!” Just as I hit send, my phone buzzed with an incoming message. It was Jackie: “Sorry, I put my phone on silent because I was afraid a ringtone might make too much noise. That’s why I missed your calls. What’s going on?” I quickly typed: “Don’t go to the office! Hide somewhere safe. I’m almost there. Wait for me!” Her reply sent a chill down my spine: “It’s too late. I’m already at the office, but Nate’s not here. There’s no one here. Where are they?” I could feel her fear through the screen. Anyone in her situation—being lured into an empty office under false pretenses—would be terrified. Her messages kept coming, her panic growing: “Nate isn’t answering his phone. I can’t get in touch with him at all. The office is completely empty. What do I do? My sister just texted me asking if I’ve gone home yet. She says she’s coming to find me. How does she know I’m here? Should I reply? I’m hiding in the storage room behind the office. I told Nate to come find me, but he hasn’t responded. Is he okay?” I typed back quickly, my hands shaking: “No! Don’t tell him where you are! The fake property managers will know if you do! Get out of there, now!” But just as I sent the message, another one came in from her: “Nate’s here. He came to find me.” My heart sank. I replied immediately: “Don’t go out! That’s not Nate! It’s the killer! Hide somewhere else, now!” But there was no response. In the car, clutching my phone, I opened my girlfriend’s chat. The last message she’d sent still lingered on the screen: “Don’t you dare come over!” Then, my phone buzzed again. It wasn’t Jackie. It was a new message from my girlfriend: “What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy? Why would you get my sister and Nate involved in this?”
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