The Request Unsent

The notification pinged at 3:14 AM.

Maya’s phone illuminated her dark bedroom, casting a harsh blue glow across her face. She blinked against the burn of the screen. It was an Instagram notification, but not a standard one.

“User_9921 is requesting to share your live location via Direct Message.”

Maya frowned, her thumb hovering over the screen. She didn’t know a User_9921. Her account was private. She tapped the profile. No posts. Zero followers. The profile picture was just a default grey silhouette.

She hit Decline and tossed the phone onto the nightstand. Just a glitch, or a bot. She rolled over, pulling the duvet tighter around her shoulders, waiting for sleep to drag her back under.

Ping.

She groaned, reaching for the phone again.

“User_9921 is requesting to share your live location via Direct Message.”

This time, she blocked the account. Absolute freak. She locked the screen, but before she could set it down, it vibrated violently in her hand. A text message from an unknown number.

Unknown: Why did you block me, Maya? It’s cold out here.

A cold spike of adrenaline shot through her chest, instantly vaporizing her sleepiness. She sat upright in bed, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked toward her bedroom window. The blinds were drawn, tightly shut.

Maya: Who is this? How do you know my name? I’m calling the police.

Unknown: Go ahead. They won’t make it past the driveway before I’m inside. Turn around.

Maya frozen. Her breath hitched in her throat. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, suffocating. Turn around.

Slowly, agonizingly, she turned her head to look at the blank wall behind her headboard. Nothing. She looked around the dark corners of her room. The closet door was cracked open a mere two inches, revealing nothing but pitch-black emptiness.

Her phone buzzed again. It was an image file.

With trembling fingers, she tapped it open. It was a photo. A photo of her, taken from behind, sitting up in her bed, looking at the closet. The vantage point was from inside the closet.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. The person wasn't outside. They were already in the room.

Maya screamed, dropping the phone. She scrambled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. She sprinted for her bedroom door, yanked it open, and flew down the dark hallway. She didn't look back to see if the closet door was opening. She didn't want to know.

She sprinted down the stairs, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Her only thought was the front door. Escape. Get to the street. Get to safety.

She reached the bottom of the stairs, her hand catching the banister to swing herself toward the foyer. But as her feet hit the rug, she heard it.

Click.

The distinct, heavy sound of the front door deadbolt turning.

She stopped dead in her tracks. The front door didn't open outward; someone was locking it from the inside. A tall, shadowy figure stepped out from the darkness of the kitchen, blocking her path to the exit.

"You run fast," a low, distorted voice whispered.

Maya stumbled backward, her mind racing, logic failing her under the crushing weight of pure terror. If he was downstairs... who was in the closet?

Her phone, left upstairs on the bedroom floor, began to ring loudly. In the silence of the house, she could hear the generic ringtone echoing down the stairwell.

Then, another phone began to ring. It wasn't the man in front of her; his hands were empty.

The ringing was coming from directly behind her, at the top of the stairs she had just run down.

Maya looked up into the darkness of the upper landing. A second figure stood there, holding a glowing phone. The blue light illuminated a twisted, smiling mask.

They had planned this. They hadn't trapped her in her room; they had herded her.

As the two figures began to close the distance from both above and below, Maya realized the most horrifying truth of all: she had never checked the locks before she went to sleep.