DON’T REPLY TO HER American Horror Story

It was supposed to be a typical night. Mia lay on her bed, her phone resting on her stomach, the dim glow of the screen casting eerie shadows on her bedroom ceiling. A notification popped up—her group chat had been created. She and her friends—Jason, Claire, Ben, and Lily—were planning their weekend trip, a much-needed escape from school stress. She tapped the screen, opening the chat.

A cold shiver ran down her spine. There were six names in the group.

Sarah’s name was there.

Mia’s breath hitched. That wasn’t possible. Sarah had been dead for over a year, drowned in the dark, endless waters of Blackwood Lake. They had searched for her, screamed her name into the cold night air, but she never surfaced. Her body was never found. And yet, her name sat there in the chat list, unblinking, undeniable.

The room around Mia felt darker, heavier, as if the air itself had thickened. Her thumb hovered over the screen, her heartbeat a dull thud in her ears. Maybe it was a glitch. Maybe someone had added an old account by mistake. But before she could react, the first message appeared.

A single sentence. Simple. Accusatory.

A deep unease settled in her stomach. The screen flickered. Her phone grew unnaturally hot in her hands. Then, without warning, another message appeared—this time from an unknown user. No profile picture. No name. Just a blank void where an identity should have been.

The screen dimmed, and for a brief moment, Mia saw her reflection staring back at her in the dark glass of her phone. But she wasn’t alone.

A shape stood behind her. A dark, hollow silhouette.

Her breath caught in her throat as she turned, her body stiff with terror. But there was nothing there. Just the stillness of her empty bedroom. The shadows seemed deeper now, shifting, almost breathing. The air felt wrong, charged with something unseen, something watching.

Her phone vibrated violently in her grip, the screen distorting, lines of static flashing across it. Then, at the bottom of the chat, a final notification appeared.

“Sarah is typing…”

Jason was the first to disappear.

The morning after Sarah’s name appeared in the chat, he was simply gone. His mother found his bed neatly made, his phone still on the nightstand, screen glowing softly with a single unread message. His shoes were by the door. His keys were on the kitchen counter. It was as if he had stepped out for a moment and never returned.

The police searched, but there was no sign of him. No forced entry. No struggle. No evidence he had ever left the house. His digital footprint was wiped clean. His social media accounts had vanished. His phone history was erased. The only trace of him left was the unread message on his phone.

It was a single sentence. Simple. Inevitable.

The rest of the group tried to stay rational. Maybe Jason had run away. Maybe he had left on his own. But deep down, they knew the truth. The weight of it pressed down on them like a suffocating fog.

That night, Claire’s phone buzzed. She stared at the glowing notification with dread curdling in her stomach.

Another message.

She turned off her phone, shoved it under her pillow, and squeezed her eyes shut. But sleep didn’t come. The air in her room grew colder, heavy with something unseen. The darkness in the corners stretched wider, deeper. The walls creaked with a sound that wasn’t the house settling.

At 3:12 AM, her bedroom door opened.

The next morning, she was gone.

Her parents found her room undisturbed. The blankets were pulled up to her chin, as if she had gone to sleep and never woken up. But there was no Claire. Just an empty husk of a room, eerily untouched, as if she had been erased from reality.

The group chat remained silent for hours. Then, without warning, another notification appeared.

Ben’s phone exploded in his hand.

A sharp, high-pitched whine filled his ears as the device cracked, screen splitting like shattered ice. He dropped it, his palm bleeding from the sharp edges of glass. The lights flickered violently, plunging his room into brief moments of darkness.

When the lights stabilized, he saw something.

Scratch marks on the walls. Long, deep grooves trailing from the ceiling down to the floor, like something had tried to claw its way into his room.

By morning, Ben was gone.

Lily refused to speak about it. She deleted the chat, threw her phone into the river, and convinced Mia to stay with her. They locked the doors. Kept the lights on. Refused to acknowledge whatever was happening.

But it didn’t matter.

Their names were already written.

And the next message had already been sent.

Lily didn’t want to be alone. She packed a bag and went straight to Mia’s house, refusing to stay in her own. Neither of them spoke about what was happening. They didn’t mention Jason. Or Claire. Or Ben. As if not saying their names would erase the truth.

Lily refused to touch a phone. She had thrown hers into the river that morning. Mia followed her lead, shutting off all her devices and stuffing them into a drawer. If the messages couldn’t reach them, maybe they would be safe.

But the silence wasn’t safe. It was worse.

That night, something moved in the walls.

Mia heard it first—a faint, rhythmic shuffling, like someone pacing just beyond the plaster. It started above them, in the attic, slow and deliberate. Then it moved down, into the walls, creeping closer with every step.

Lily lay beside her, frozen beneath the blankets. Neither of them dared to breathe.

A floorboard groaned in the hallway outside Mia’s bedroom door.

The air turned ice cold. The doorknob twitched. Something was there. Waiting.

Then, the soft sound of fingernails trailing down the wooden surface.

A long, deliberate scrape.

Mia shut her eyes, forcing herself not to move, not to scream.

The sound stopped.

Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Minutes passed. Then hours. Neither of them moved, trapped in that frozen moment. Eventually, exhaustion overtook them, dragging them into restless, uneasy sleep.

When Mia woke, she was alone.

Lily’s side of the bed was empty, the blankets still indented where she had been. The room was silent, but something was wrong. The air smelled… damp. Cold. Like lake water.

Mia’s stomach twisted.

Her closet door was open.

Not wide. Just enough to see the darkness yawning inside.

And there—on the floor—was Lily’s phone.

Mia knew Lily had destroyed it. She had thrown it into the river. But there it was, glowing faintly in the shadows. The screen was cracked, glitching, barely holding onto an image.

A photograph.

It was a picture of Lily.

She was asleep in Mia’s bed.

And behind her, standing in the darkness, was a figure. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Wet strands of hair clinging to a face too familiar to be real.

Sarah.

Mia’s throat tightened.

A new message appeared on the broken screen.

Just two words.

“You’re alone.”

Mia didn’t run. She knew there was nowhere to go. Jason, Claire, Ben, and now Lily—one by one, they had vanished without a trace. The group chat was empty now. Only her name remained.

She stared at Lily’s phone, still lying on the floor where she had found it. The cracked screen flickered weakly, the image burned into it. That pale, wet face. Those hollow, dead eyes.

Sarah.

Mia wanted to scream, to smash the phone, to destroy the thing that had brought this nightmare into her life. But she knew it wouldn’t matter. The messages always found a way.

The house was silent, too silent, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The air was thick, stagnant, reeking of damp earth and lake water. Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked—a slow, steady rhythm, counting down to something inevitable.

She sat on her bed, knees pulled to her chest, waiting.

The lights dimmed.

A low hum filled the room, vibrating through the floor, through her bones. The temperature plummeted, her breath turning to mist in the cold air. The darkness in the corners of the room thickened, pulsing like a living thing.

Then, the phone screen changed.

A new notification.

“Sarah is calling.”

Mia’s stomach twisted. The phone vibrated violently, rattling against the floor. The ringing grew louder, distorted, wrong—like a voice screaming from the bottom of a deep, endless abyss.

She covered her ears, shaking her head. No. She wouldn’t answer. She couldn’t.

The lights went out.

For a moment, there was only darkness. And then—

Footsteps.

Soft. Wet. Coming from inside the room.

The air turned heavy, pressing down on her chest, suffocating her. A damp, rotting scent filled her nostrils, thick and cloying, the unmistakable stench of something that had been underwater for far too long.

Something moved in the darkness.

The phone stopped ringing.

A final message appeared on the screen.

“Look behind you.”

Mia didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

But she felt it.

The cold breath against the back of her neck. The slow, deliberate movement of fingers reaching toward her. The sound of water dripping onto the floor.

A whisper, barely audible, yet deafening in the silence.

“Why did you leave me?”

The room tilted. The walls warped, shifting like ripples on the surface of a lake. The darkness swallowed her whole.

And then—

Nothing.

By morning, Mia was gone.

Her bed was empty. Her phone was still in the drawer, untouched, as if she had never taken it out. There was no sign of struggle. No trace of her ever being there.

But a new group chat had been created.

And the first message had already been sent.

“Don’t reply to her.”

The world moved on as if Mia had never existed. Her house remained untouched, her bed neatly made, her phone still powered off in the drawer. No one saw her leave. No cameras captured her disappearance. There was no evidence she had ever been there at all.

But something was left behind.

The group chat had been erased. No history. No messages. Nothing to prove it had ever been created. And yet, a new chat had appeared—one with an unfamiliar list of names.

A new group of five.

And at the top of the screen, the first message had already been sent.

“Don’t reply to her.”

Somewhere, miles away, a teenager named Emily frowned at her phone. She didn’t remember joining this chat. The names in the group were unfamiliar, except for one.

Mia.

A chill ran down her spine. Her fingers hovered over the screen. The chat was completely silent, except for a single notification blinking at the bottom.

“Mia is typing…”

A cold breath whispered through Emily’s room, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. The air smelled damp—like lake water.

Then, the first message appeared.

“You’re next.”

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