This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Obvious-Secretary151 on 2024-11-22 04:32:17+00:00.
It started as a dare.
My roommate, Jake, found the game on some obscure forum. The post was full of cryptic warnings and half-joking testimonials, the kind of thing you’d expect from a chain email circa 2005.
“Midnight Calls,” Jake read aloud, grinning like an idiot. “All you have to do is play, follow the rules, and survive until dawn. Piece of cake.”
I rolled my eyes. “What’s the point?”
“The point,” he said, “is that if you win, you get a wish. Anything you want. Money, fame, whatever.”
“Yeah, or a virus on your phone.”
But Jake wouldn’t let it go. By 11:50 PM, he had convinced me to play with him. It was simple, he said. The game required three things: a smartphone, a candle, and darkness.
We sat in the living room with the lights off, the flickering candle casting jagged shadows on the walls. Jake opened the app he’d downloaded—a plain black screen with a timer counting down to midnight.
“Ready?” he asked.
“This is dumb,” I muttered.
The timer hit zero, and the phone screen changed. A message popped up:
"Do you wish to begin? Yes / No."
Jake tapped “Yes” without hesitation. My phone buzzed, showing the same screen. Reluctantly, I tapped “Yes.”
"Rule 1: Do not leave the house. Rule 2: Keep your candle lit. Rule 3: Answer when it calls."
“What does it mean by ‘it’?” I asked.
Jake shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”
The first fifteen minutes were uneventful. We sat there in awkward silence, staring at our phones. Then Jake’s phone buzzed, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness.
He answered, putting it on speaker. “Hello?”
A voice, distorted and crackling, hissed through the speaker. “Would you like to continue?”
Jake laughed nervously. “Yeah?”
The line went dead. A new message popped up on his screen:
"Rule 4: Don’t look behind you."
I shivered despite myself. “Okay, that’s creepy.”
My phone buzzed next. I answered, my voice shaky. “Hello?”
The same distorted voice, but this time it whispered my name. “Would you like to continue?”
My stomach turned, but I forced myself to answer. “Yes.”
The line clicked off, and a message appeared:
"Rule 5: Don’t trust him."
“Don’t trust who?” I asked, staring at the screen.
Jake looked up, his face pale in the candlelight. “What’d it say?”
“Nothing.”
We didn’t talk after that. The air grew heavier, and the shadows seemed to stretch farther with each flicker of the candle. I thought I saw something move in the corner of my eye, but every time I turned, there was nothing there.
Then Jake’s candle went out.
“Shit,” he hissed, scrambling to relight it. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the match.
My phone buzzed again.
“Hello?”
The voice didn’t whisper this time. It growled. “He failed. Will you help him?”
I looked at Jake, who was still fumbling with his candle. “What happens if I say no?”
The growl turned into a low, guttural laugh. “You’ll find out.”
The line went dead, and my phone flashed a message:
"Rule 6: Don’t let him leave."
“Jake,” I said slowly, “you can’t go outside.”
His head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Why not?”
“I don’t know, but the game—”
“This is insane!” He stood, grabbing his phone. “I’m done. Screw this stupid game.”
Before I could stop him, he headed for the front door. I lunged after him, but the moment he turned the knob, the air in the room shifted. It was like the atmosphere itself was sucked out, leaving behind a suffocating emptiness.
Jake froze, his hand still on the doorknob.
“Jake?” I whispered.
He turned to face me, but it wasn’t him anymore. His eyes were wrong, black and empty, and his mouth twisted into a grin that stretched too far.
“You broke the rules,” he said, his voice layered with something deeper, something inhuman.
I stumbled back, tripping over the coffee table. My candle flickered violently, and I scrambled to shield it.
Jake—or whatever was wearing his face—stepped toward me. “You should’ve stopped him,” it hissed.
The candle went out.
The last thing I saw before the room plunged into darkness was Jake’s face splitting open, revealing something sharp and glistening underneath.
I woke up on the floor at dawn, the smell of burnt wax clinging to the air. Jake was gone. His phone sat on the table, screen shattered, the app nowhere to be found.
There’s one last rule they don’t tell you:
If you lose, the game keeps playing.
Now, every night at midnight, my phone buzzes. I don’t answer. But I know someday, I’ll have to.