I’m nobody special, just Luca, 24, still living with my mom’s Wi-Fi and her lasagna leftovers. Most nights I scroll until my phone burns my cheek. That Tuesday started the same—memes, cats, some dude arguing the earth is a donut—until the notification popped: “Mara_K wants to add you.”
Profile pic was grainy, girl about my age, hair over one eye like she’d walked out of a 2004 emo video. No mutual friends, no location, just the bio: “Still waiting.” I hit accept ’cause, honestly, boredom counts as a reason.
Instant ping. “Hey roomie.”
I typed back, “Wrong Luca?”
She replied with a voice note. Static first, then whisper: “Look behind you, but don’t turn too fast.”
I laughed, nervous-coughed, looked anyway—only my laundry pile shaped like a drunk ghost. I told her she almost got me. She sent a thumbs-up and went offline. Whatever, creeps are the cost of free internet.
Next morning my mirror had a foggy handprint even though I hadn’t showered. I wiped it, but the print came back, smaller, like a kid’s. I snapped a pic, posted it as a joke: “My place is haunted lol.” Mara liked it within a second. She wasn’t even online—status said last active 19 hours ago. Algorithms, right?
That night I woke up at 3:07 A.M. to my playlist running by itself, one song on repeat: “We’ll Be Together.” The singer’s voice sounded underwater. I checked the app; Mara was typing. Three dots pulsed for a whole minute, then stopped. No message. Just my own reflection in the black screen, except the hair was longer, over one eye.
I messaged her: “Quit it, you’re freaking me out.”
She answered with a live location—pin dropped at my address. Caption: “Buzz me in.”
I live on the fourth floor, doorbell busted since 2019. My phone vibrated again, this time a video call. I picked up. Camera showed my own hallway, yellow walls, busted bike, but filmed from the ceiling like a security cam. No one there. Then slow zoom on my door. Knock in real life matched the sound in the video. My legs turned to spaghetti.
I slammed the laptop, yanked the router cord. Silence. I sat in the dark until sunrise, telling myself it was some hacker neighbor with too much time and a drone. At 7 A.M. I packed for my buddy’s couch.
But the app followed. Even on 4G, Mara’s profile topped my chat list. I deleted it; it reappeared. I reported; the system said, “User not found.” I tried to deactivate my account—needed a code sent to email. The code arrived as a photo: my bedroom, me asleep, timestamp 3:07 A.M. that same night.
I drove to my grandma’s village, no signal, just roosters and her old radio. First night there, dreamless sleep. Second night, grandma shook me awake: “Who’s the girl on the porch?” No one. Just wet footprints leading to the guest room. On the dusty mirror, new words: “Still waiting.”
I finally replied, “What do you want?”
She sent one last voice note, clearer now, almost normal: “Tag me. Let them see.”
I posted the entire story—screenshots, audio, footprints—on every platform. Within minutes, comments poured: “Same girl added me,” “She’s outside my window,” “3:07 gang.” Thousands of us. Turns out Mara_K spams the globe, one friend request at a time. The more we share, the quieter she gets. Like she feeds on being seen.
Last night the clock hit 3:06. My screen lit up: “Thanks, roomie.” Then her profile vanished, not deleted, just gone. I checked the mirror—no prints, no words. Roosters screamed early. I breathed, maybe too soon.
But here’s the kicker: if you’re reading this, scroll your pending requests. If you spot Mara_K, decide quick—ignore and maybe she knocks, or accept and pass her along like a chain letter made of frost. Either way, set an alarm for 3:06. Give her the five minutes she needs. And whatever you do, don’t heart-react. That’s how she knows you’re really watching.
Stay online, stay loud, and maybe we keep her thin enough to slip through the cracks. Good luck, new roomie. The Wi-Fi’s strong tonight, and the clock’s already ticking toward 3:07.