My phone started texting me and it knows everything

I woke up at 2:13 a.m. to a notification from my own number.

“Do not get out of bed tomorrow.”

Wrong number? Glitch? Sleep-deprived brain? I ignored it.

The next day, 7:42 a.m.: “Turn left at the corner. Do not talk to her.”

I froze. I hadn’t left the apartment yet. I went left anyway. Nothing happened. I laughed, shaking. Just a prank, right?

It kept coming. Every hour, a new text predicting something mundane, then personal, then impossible. “You will spill coffee at noon.” I spilled it. “The cat will knock over the lamp at 3:07.” Lamp toppled.

I tried deleting the messages. Turning off the phone. Nothing worked. It even sent texts when the battery was dead.

By nightfall, it was worse. “Do not sleep. She is coming.” I didn’t know who “she” was. Shadows moved in impossible ways. Furniture shifted when I wasn’t looking.

At 11:59 p.m., a text arrived: “You are already too late.” My phone was dead. I had no signal. Typing came from the kitchen. I didn’t have a laptop open.

I went to check. The messages were on the refrigerator screen. “Open the door.” I opened it. Nothing. Just cold air. Then a third message: “You’re next.”

I dropped my phone. The screen lit up anyway. It wasn’t mine. Not entirely. It was me, typing. Every message I hadn’t written yet.

I don’t sleep. I don’t leave the apartment. Every text is a countdown. Every vibration a heartbeat. Every notification feels like a finger pointing at me.

Tonight, a new message arrived: “This is the last warning. You will read this story tomorrow, and it will already be too late.”