MR. PLAYSTORE GAMER

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MR. PLAYSTORE GAMER

6 months ago | [YT] | 1

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MR. PLAYSTORE GAMER

Rafiq was a university student, quiet and curious, who had recently moved into an old rented apartment near his campus in Chittagong. The place was cheap, too cheap for the area. The landlord claimed the last tenant left suddenly and never came back for their things.

That should’ve been the first warning.

The room was dusty, and an old feature phone lay under the bed — not a smartphone, but one of those basic ones with a tiny screen and physical buttons. Rafiq powered it on out of curiosity. To his surprise, it still worked. One unread message blinked on the screen:

“Don’t answer the knock after 3:33 AM. No matter what.”

He laughed. Probably a prank from the previous tenant. Still, he kept the phone, just for fun.

That night, rain poured hard outside, and the wind howled like whispers circling the building. At around 2:00 AM, Rafiq finished studying and went to bed. The room was silent, except for the ticking of a wall clock and the occasional thunder.

At 3:33 AM, three soft knocks echoed on his door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.

His heart froze.

He sat up. "Just a coincidence," he told himself. Probably a neighbor or the wind.

But the knocks came again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time, slower. He tiptoed to the door and looked through the peephole.

No one.

But the hallway light was flickering.

He stepped back. Suddenly, the old phone beeped again. Another message:

“You looked. Now it knows.”

A cold chill ran down his spine. The temperature in the room dropped sharply. The lights flickered once, then went out completely.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time, it came from the window.

He turned toward it slowly. A pale, elongated hand with broken fingers pressed against the glass from outside — four floors up.

Rafiq backed away in terror. The phone buzzed violently in his hand. He looked.

“Don’t run. It loves that.”

Suddenly, the door creaked open on its own. The darkness in the hallway seemed to breathe, as if alive.

Then he saw it.

A figure stepped into the room — tall, thin, bones popping through its stretched skin, eyes hollow and black. It didn’t walk. It floated an inch above the floor.

The phone slipped from his hand and shattered on the ground.

Everything went black.

---

The next morning, the landlord stood outside the apartment door, frowning. He’d heard nothing — again. He sighed, writing another name on his list of tenants who never stayed past one night.

Inside, the room was empty.

Except for an old feature phone lying under the bed, screen blinking:

“Don’t answer the knock after 3:33 AM. No matter what.”