In the Darkness+18

Behind the black screen

It begins the way all stories like this do. With a click.

It’s a sound you barely register, coming from the speakers of your device. A sound like a recording starting, or an old switch being flipped in a house miles away.

The screen you’re staring at is dark. You assume the chapter is over. But it’s not.

Something is moving in the digital blackness—a thin, wavy distortion, like heat haze rising from asphalt. For a long moment, it’s just noise, a glitch in the data. Then, slowly, agonizingly, the shadow begins to coalesce. It gathers itself from the void, forming long, dark hair, a face as pale as bone, and eyes that you know all too well.

Elif.

But she isn't in her apartment. She isn't in the gray void. There are no walls around her, only an infinite expanse of digital emptiness. She seems to be floating, lost between worlds. And in front of her, the only source of light.

A screen.

Your screen.

She lifts her head, her movements jerky and unnatural, like a corrupted video file. She squints, her eyes struggling to focus, as if she is peering through a one-way mirror, trying desperately to see the person on the other side. Then her lips move, forming silent, frantic words. No sound comes out, but a faint vapor mists the inside of the screen, a ghostly breath condensing on the glass.

Suddenly, a single, static-laced word echoes in the silence of your room:

“Can…?”

It’s her voice, but it’s wrong. Distant, broken. A moment of silence stretches, thick with anticipation. Then the sentence comes again, clearer this time, more forceful, as if she has finally broken through a barrier.

“Can you hear me?”

Elif reaches out a trembling hand, pressing her palm against the screen from her side. As her fingertips make contact with the invisible barrier, a spot of pure blackness appears in the center of your display, right where she’s touching. It’s the same obsidian, light-devouring stain from the notebook. It grows rapidly, spreading like ink in water, consuming her image until the entire screen is once again a perfect, silent black.

A sharp crackle erupts from your speakers. It’s the sound of a connection being established.

“Here…” Elif’s voice whispers, now clear and frighteningly close. “It’s so dark. But I’m not alone anymore.”

As she speaks, new images flicker to life on the screen, a ghostly slideshow from her world. An apartment door, the number 12 faded but still visible. The black notebook, its cover flipping open on its own. And on the blank page, a sentence bleeds into existence:

“This time, you will write the story.”

The image of the notebook fades. Elif’s face returns, but she’s no longer looking around frantically. Her head is tilted, and her gaze is fixed, unwavering. She is looking directly out of the screen—at you. Her lips part, mouthing a single, silent word. Your name.

Her image dissolves, and the screen goes completely dark.

For a moment, all you see is a reflection. And in that reflection… you are there. Your face, illuminated by the faint glow of the dying screen. But something is wrong. Your eyes… in the reflection, they are hollow and empty.

A sharp, familiar ping cuts through the silence. The sound of a notification. It didn’t come from the device you’re reading on. It came from your phone, lying on the table beside you. The screen is lit up.

New Message: ‘I opened the door.’

You pick up the phone. The screen feels cold, unnaturally so. The message is from an unknown number. There is no text history. Just that one line. As you watch, the text shimmers and fades, replaced by a new sentence, typed out by an invisible author.

“I’m on your side now.”

Suddenly, the screen flashes, the home screen vanishing. It’s been replaced by an image. A live feed. The camera is pointing down a dimly lit staircase. It’s grainy, unsteady, as if being held by someone walking. You can hear the sound of breathing through the phone’s speaker—short, sharp, panicked breaths. With a sickening lurch in your stomach, you recognize the worn carpet, the crack in the wall. These are the stairs in your building. Or your house.

Elif’s voice echoes again, a clear, sharp whisper that seems to come from both the phone and the room around you.

“Hearing me isn’t enough. You have to see me.”

The live feed switches to the front-facing camera. For a split second, you see a distorted image of Elif’s face, her eyes wide with terror, before she flips it back. The camera is now approaching your front door. The light from your room is seeping through the crack underneath it. A shadow passes in front of that crack.

“I came out of that door,” Elif’s voice whispers, a promise and a threat. “And now you will go in.”

The phone screen flickers and dies. Another crackle of static. And then, a voice, so close it feels like a puff of cold air on your neck, whispers right beside your ear:

“Don’t look behind you.”

The lamp in your room flickers once. Twice. Then goes out, leaving you in the dark with only the faint glow of your reading screen. The image on it is black, but a silhouette is there, slowly solidifying, stepping out of the depths of the screen and into reality.

Elif's voice returns, muffled and distorted, as if coming from another dimension.

“I didn't write this part of the story. You are.”

The notebook cover appears on the screen one last time. A new title is burning itself onto the black leather:

“REALITY INFILTRATED.”

Elif’s face materializes a final time. It’s mostly shadow, but her eyes… they are glowing with a pure, terrifying white light. She looks at you, through you, and her lips form a silent question that hangs in the air long after her image has faded.

“Who’s next?”