This link will disapear in 30 seconds

Untitled Part 1

"This Link Will Disappear in 30 Seconds"

It was a quiet Tuesday evening when Emily received the message. Her phone buzzed, a notification flashing across her screen:

"This link will disappear in 30 seconds."

At first, she thought it was a mistake, some bizarre marketing ad or a glitch from one of those apps she hardly ever used. But as she stared at the message, a strange chill crawled down her spine. The link was in blue, underlined—normal enough—but there was something unsettling about it. Something urgent, as if it was trying to tell her to click without thinking.

She glanced at the clock. 8:57 PM.

Her fingers hesitated over the screen. What could it hurt? she thought, tapping the link before she could second-guess herself. It opened a dark webpage, the background pitch black with only a single white font blinking in the center:

"You should not have clicked."

Her heart thudded in her chest. She felt a strange pressure in her throat, as if someone was watching her. But the room was empty—nothing out of the ordinary. Still, she couldn't shake the sense that something was off.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed again.

"This link will disappear in 10 seconds."

A countdown began in the corner of the screen, and Emily's anxiety deepened. The blinking message on the page faded, replaced by a new one:

"You are now part of the game."

Her fingers shook as she dropped her phone onto the couch, her mind reeling. A game? But who would send her something like this? And why? There was no return number, no indication of where the message came from. Emily tried to close the page, but her phone wouldn't respond. The screen was frozen.

Panic set in.

The countdown clicked down with a sickening finality, and Emily had no time to act before the screen went black.

8:58 PM.

Then the buzzing started again, this time louder, more insistent.

"The game has begun."

The phone vibrated in her hand, a violent pulse, and she nearly dropped it. Her screen flickered back to life, but now the page was gone. Instead, a new notification appeared on her lock screen:

"Turn off the lights."

Emily's blood ran cold. She glanced around her apartment. The lights were on, warm and safe. But that message—Turn off the lights—echoed in her mind, growing louder with every second.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Could this be some sick prank? But who would do something like this? Her thumb hovered over the message, but before she could even consider ignoring it, the lights in her apartment flickered.

And then, one by one, they turned off.

The room was plunged into darkness.

Her phone buzzed again:

"The first step is complete. You are not alone."

A noise echoed from the kitchen. Emily's pulse quickened. She wasn't alone. She wasn't imagining it.

Another vibration. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the glowing screen.

"Find the door."

Her breath caught in her throat. The apartment felt smaller now, suffocating. She stood slowly, unsure if she was moving at all, her mind spinning with fear. Her phone kept vibrating, each buzz sending shocks through her body.

"The door is locked. Find the key."

With trembling hands, Emily fumbled in her pocket, pulling out the house keys she always carried. She rushed to the door and tried the key, but the lock wouldn't budge. The message on her phone flickered again:

"You're almost there. But it's too late."

Her phone went dead.

The silence was deafening.

She reached for the door handle, her heart pounding. There was no way out. Behind her, the shadows seemed to shift, as if something—someone—was lurking just beyond the edges of the room. She turned, her breath coming in shallow gasps. A figure loomed in the doorway.

And in the faintest whisper, she heard it.

"Game over."

The darkness swallowed her whole.

And then, the phone buzzed one last time, the screen flashing a final message:

"This link will disappear in 30 seconds."

But it was too late. Emily had already vanished.