Autocorrect

I hadn’t meant to stay up that late.

It was one of those nights where the silence felt heavier than usual, like the whole world was holding its breath. My room was dark except for the soft blue glow of my phone screen. I lay on my side, scrolling through the same three apps over and over, hoping boredom would eventually knock me out.

At 2:13 AM, I gave up and decided to text my friend.

“Are you up?”

Before I could hit send, the text flickered — like the letters glitched — and autocorrect changed it to:

“Don’t look behind you.”

I stared at the screen, confused.

Maybe I typed too fast.

Maybe my phone lagged.

I deleted the message and typed again.

“Are you awake?”

Autocorrect replaced it instantly:

“It sees you.”

A cold ripple crawled up my spine.

The room felt suddenly heavier, like the air thickened around me.

I typed slower this time, deliberately.

“Hello?”

Autocorrect changed it again:

“Stop moving.”

My breath caught.

I wasn’t moving.

I wasn’t even breathing.

I locked my phone and listened.

The house was silent — no cars outside, no AC humming, no pipes settling.

Just silence.

The kind that feels wrong.

I sat up slightly, trying to shake off the unease.

Maybe my phone was hacked.

Maybe it was a glitch.

Then my phone vibrated.

A notification from the Notes app — even though I hadn’t opened it in months.

A new note had been created.

I tapped it.

There was only one sentence:

“It’s right next to your bed.”

My throat tightened.

I didn’t want to look.

I didn’t want to breathe.

The darkness beside my bed felt thicker than the rest of the room, like it was swallowing the light instead of reflecting it.

My phone buzzed again.

Another autocorrect suggestion appeared at the top of the keyboard.

“Don’t scream.”

I froze.

Then the mattress dipped — just slightly — like someone had put their weight on the edge of the bed.

I felt the shift.

The pressure.

The presence.

My phone vibrated again, harder this time.

A new message appeared on the screen, but it wasn’t from any contact.

It was from Unknown.

“It likes when you pretend you don’t see it.”

My breath shook.

The mattress dipped again, closer to my legs.

Another message:

“It’s leaning over you now.”

I felt warm air brush my cheek — slow, wet, uneven breathing.

Not human breathing.

Too close.

Too heavy.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

My phone buzzed again.

Autocorrect didn’t even wait for me to type.

It filled the text box on its own:

“Open your eyes.”

I didn’t.

But something else did.

A soft, wet sound — like lips peeling apart — came from the darkness beside me.

Then a whisper, right against my ear:

“I knew you could hear me.”

I felt fingers — cold, thin, trembling — brush the side of my neck.

My phone buzzed again.

A final autocorrect suggestion appeared:

“It’s inside the phone.”

The screen flickered.

Glitched.

Distorted.

The reflection on the glass wasn’t mine anymore.

Something else was staring back.

Something smiling.

THE NEXT MORNING

I tried to convince myself it was sleep paralysis.

A nightmare.

A hallucination.

But when I checked my phone, the Notes app had seven new entries.

Each one was a timestamp.

Each one had a single sentence.

2:14 AM — “It touched your leg.”

2:16 AM — “It leaned closer.”

2:18 AM — “It whispered your name.”

2:19 AM — “You heard it.”

2:21 AM — “It watched you pretend to sleep.”

2:23 AM — “It almost woke you.”

2:24 AM — “It will come back tonight.”

My hands shook as I scrolled.

The last note had a different font — jagged, uneven, like it wasn’t typed but carved into the screen.

“Don’t lock your phone tonight.”

I dropped the device.

The screen stayed on.

The camera opened by itself.

The front camera.

And in the preview, behind me, something moved.

Something tall.

Something thin.

Something smiling too wide.

The phone vibrated one last time.

Autocorrect filled the text box without me touching it:

“Turn around.”

THAT NIGHT

I didn’t want to sleep.

I didn’t want to turn off the lights.

I didn’t want to touch my phone.

But the battery never died.

The screen never dimmed.

The phone never heated up.

It stayed on, waiting.

At 2:13 AM — the exact same time as the night before — the phone vibrated.

The flashlight turned on by itself, pointing directly at my face.

In the reflection of the screen, I saw it again.

A silhouette.

Tall.

Bent.

Its head tilted at an impossible angle.

I didn’t turn around.

The phone typed slowly, letter by letter:

“It’s not behind you anymore.”

The mattress dipped — deeper this time — like something was crawling onto the bed.

The air grew colder.

My breath fogged in front of me.

The phone typed again:

“It’s under the blanket.”

I felt the fabric shift near my feet.

Something cold brushed my ankle.

I kicked instinctively, but the blanket didn’t move — like something was holding it down from the inside.

The phone typed again:

“It wants your face.”

The blanket slid up my body, inch by inch, like a mouth swallowing me whole.

I thrashed, clawing at the sheets, but the pressure was too strong.

My arms were pinned.

My chest compressed.

The blanket reached my neck.

The phone buzzed one last time.

The final autocorrect message appeared:

“It’s done pretending.”

The blanket snapped upward, covering my entire face.

Darkness.

Suffocating, heavy darkness.

Something pressed against my cheek from the inside of the blanket — a cold, bony shape — like a face pushing against mine through the fabric.

I felt its mouth open.

Hot, wet breath washed over my skin.

Then a whisper, muffled but unmistakably close:

“Now open your eyes.”

I did.

And the blanket wasn’t a blanket anymore.

It was a face.

A stretched, pale, skin‑thin face wrapped around mine like a second layer, sealing over my mouth, my nose, my eyes.

I couldn’t scream.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t move.

The last thing I saw before everything went black was my phone screen lighting up on the nightstand.

A new message appeared.

From Unknown.

“Autocorrect enabled.”

Then the screen went dark.

And so did I.