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I hit play. The footage was shaky, clearly filmed by someone running. It was night, and the only light came from a flickering flashlight held by the person behind the camera. The audio was heavy with ragged, panicked breathing and the sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot.

I reached for the power button, but the screen stayed black. The battery hadn't died; the phone was cold, as if it had never been turned on at all. IMG_0430.MOV

I looked back at the sticker on the phone's case. The sunflower wasn't a sticker. It was a hand-drawn doodle in permanent marker, identical to the ones on the "Missing" posters that had been plastered around my neighborhood ten years ago. I hit play

The girl gasped, and the running started again. The footage became a blur of dark branches and strobe-like flashes of light. Then, suddenly, the girl tripped. The camera tumbled through the air, landing face-up in the dirt. The audio was heavy with ragged, panicked breathing

The frame remained still for the final ten seconds. In the distance, the girl’s footsteps stopped abruptly. There was no scream. Just a soft, wet click-click-click sound that grew louder as it approached the lens. A pale, needle-like finger entered the frame, reaching down toward the phone. The video cut to black.

After an hour of cleaning the charging port and a frantic jump-start of the battery, the screen flickered to life. There was no passcode. The previous owner hadn't wiped it; the gallery was empty, save for a single file in the "Recents" folder.

"I don't think it's following anymore," a girl’s voice whispered. She sounded young, maybe seventeen.