Did They Get It?

Short horror fiction, Based on a very real interaction

Mar 15, 2026

Please I need you

Text this number 566-692-483

I actually groaned. Why did I even open her messages?

I’d met her a handful of times. That was it. And for once in my life, I’d used my brain and stopped it before it became something messy. While I hadn’t seen her in years, being “a nice guy,” combined with her very real, very dangerous attractiveness, even if the photos she sent looked like old pictures pulled from a camera roll, had kept me responding long after I knew I shouldn’t.

I stared at the screen for a full minute before typing back.

What’s going on?

She’d told me a lot of things. She was dying, apparently. Some rare condition. The details shifted every time I asked. When I pressed gently for specifics, she’d snap at me, accuse me of not caring.

And I knew enough about her to know that attention, especially the desperate kind, was currency.

My phone buzzed again. Two new messages. I hesitated. What if she really was dying? What kind of person ignores that?

I opened them.

I am dying baby

I exhaled slowly through my nose.

Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe I’d spend the rest of my life wondering if I’d ignored someone in their final moments.

But what do you even say to that?

I’m really sorry. Who am I texting?

The question felt clinical, detached. Maybe that was the point. Her reply came instantly.

Please please just text that number and tell them that Veronica is sorry and loves them.

A reflexive chill ran through me.

This isn’t my place. Whoever that number belonged to had probably blocked her. And if they had, there was probably a good reason. Didn’t she have anyone else? Family? A friend?

From what she’d told me, no. From what I’d seen, she’d burned those bridges.

It wasn’t entirely her fault. I suspected she had some kind of disorder and a whole lot of trauma. Something volatile. The kind that hollowed out relationships from the inside.

Another message.

Please. I can’t do it myself.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

If she was lying, I was walking into God knows what. If she wasn’t…

I typed before I could think better of it.

Alright. I’ll see what I can do.

And immediately, I wished I hadn’t. But I’d committed. I copied the number and her exact wording into my notes app first, like I needed a record. Something about it felt off. I couldn’t articulate it. Just… wrong. Like stepping onto a stair you’re sure is there and finding only air.

Still, if I was going to do it, better to rip it off like a band-aid.

I typed out the message to 566-692-483.

Hi. I’m just passing along a message Veronica asked me to give you. She says she’s sorry and that she loves you.

I hit send.

The bubble turned green.

It just sat there.

No “Delivered.” No RCS. No SMS. No error message. Just the text hovering in that strange digital purgatory, like it had been swallowed whole. Not failed. Not sent. Just… suspended.

I left the app open for a minute, half-expecting it not to deliver.

Nothing.

Fine. My part was done. I set my phone face down on the bed and told myself I’d done the decent thing. Whatever happened next wasn’t mine to carry.

At 3:33 a.m., my phone buzzed.

That alone was wrong. It was always on Do Not Disturb. No one got through unless they were in my emergency contacts, and she definitely wasn’t.

I squinted at the screen, vision blurred with sleep.

One notification.

566-692-483

My stomach tightened.

I opened it.

Who is this

“Goddamnit,” I muttered into the dark.

This wasn’t my business. I didn’t want to get dragged into some boyfriend drama, or a furious parent demanding answers, someone grieving, asking questions I couldn’t answer.

I tossed my phone onto the nightstand, trying to physically distance myself. I’d deal with it in the morning.

The phone buzzed again.

I know you read that.

I swallowed hard as a knot of anxiety climbed out of my stomach and tightened around my throat. Sleep was gone now. Completely gone.

“What the fuck, what the fuck.”

I ran a hand through my hair and rubbed my eyes, hoping, absurdly, that I’d wake up and the messages would be gone. But the glow of the screen cut through the dark room, stubborn and real.

I hadn’t done anything wrong. That thought repeated in my head like a mantra. Just tell them the truth. It took me several minutes to write the reply. I kept deleting it, rewriting it, trying to find a tone that was apologetic without sounding guilty.

Finally, I sent it.

I’m just a friend of Veronica’s. She texted me out of the blue and asked me to pass that message along to you. I don’t know anything more about you than that. I’m just the messenger, and I’m sorry if it’s a difficult message to receive.

Best.

I stared at the screen. I’d ended it like a goddamn email.

Still, it sounded calm. Neutral. Disarming.

I hit send and let out a slow breath, as if I’d just set something fragile down without breaking it.

For a moment, I sat there convincing myself I’d handled it perfectly. That was a good message. Polite. Honest. Nothing to argue with. Right?

Then the thought hit me.

My real number.

“Fuck,” I whispered into the dark.

They could trace it. Call it. Reverse search it. I could’ve used a messaging app, a burner number, anything. Instead I’d handed my contact information to a complete stranger in the middle of the night.

The anxiety in my chest twisted into something colder.

Fear.

Just then my phone buzzed again, so suddenly and violently against the wood that I nearly jumped out of bed.

You’re a friend of Veronica’s?

The knot in my throat loosened slightly. Not gone, but eased.

Probably an ex.

That I could deal with better than a grieving parent.

I typed back quickly this time.

You could say that. I don’t really know what’s going on and I don’t want to get in the middle of anything. Just trying to do the right thing.

The reply came almost immediately.

She asked you to do that too?

I frowned and wrote back.

What do you mean?

The typing dots appeared. They stayed there a long time.

Long enough for the fear in my chest to slowly change shape. Anxiety melted into something stranger.

Curiosity. And a creeping embarrassment. I knew better than to trust her.

Another message appeared.

I knew her when she lived around here. We hung out a few times. Nothing serious. Then I realized something wasn’t right about her. And I don’t just mean crazy.

Another pause.

Calls at all hours. Messages of her crying. Begging for help. Then screaming at me. So I cut her off. Blocked her. Eventually she stopped.

My screen lit up again.

Then, a few months ago, she texted me asking me to send a message to some random number. Said to tell them Veronica loved them. Said it was important.

My stomach tightened.

I almost ignored it.

But I figured… what harm could it do?

Another message appeared.

So I sent it.

The message just sat there for a while. Like it didn’t know where to go.

Then eventually someone replied.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Another guy. Same situation. Said Veronica told him to send the message too.

My skin prickled.

Another message appeared.

He told me to look something up.

A long pause.

Then:

Veronica Hale.

I laughed softly despite myself.

What?

The response came slower this time.

She died a year ago, dude. Look it up.

For a moment I just stared at the screen.

My eyes narrowed.

Okay.

The typing dots appeared again.

Trying to break the tension, I typed:

Haha. So she’s a ghost?

No reply.

The dots vanished.

Then they came back.

I don’t know what she is. Or if it is a she.

Another pause.

But she never sent you live selfies, right?

My fingers froze over the screen.

Another message arrived.

That’s what the last guy asked me.

A final pause.

Then:

He also told me something else.

My pulse thudded in my ears.

He said eventually someone else would text me.

The message appeared slowly, like it was being typed with care.

And when they did, I should delete everything and think about running.

I stared at the screen.

The message bubble shifted slightly.

Then another one appeared.