He declined it. It popped up again. And again. The screen became a flickering strobe light of requests. In a fit of panic, Julian threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and landed face-up.
Julian felt a cold prickle at the base of his neck. He zoomed in. In the gap of the doorway, he could just make out the pale edge of a hand gripping the wood. It was thin, with elongated fingers that looked more like wax than flesh. unnamed.jpg
Julian looked at the corner of his ceiling. There was no camera. He looked at the empty spot on his bed where the figure had been. The sheets were still pressed down, as if by a lingering weight. He declined it
If you enjoyed this, I can pivot the story into a different genre: A mystery about a corrupted space station log. A whimsical tale of a forgotten memory regained. A noir detective story involving a missing photographer. Which direction The screen became a flickering strobe light of requests