The microwave clock froze at 3:14 AM, and the night simply stopped moving forward. Seconds later, my dead cell phone vibrated violently, showing a call from my mother—who had passed away three years ago. When I answered, her voice sobbed through the static, begging me to open the front door because something was chasing her on my porch. But as my hand touched the cold brass lock, the smart TV screen flickered to life, showing the live security feed of my porch. There was no mother. There was only a towering, faceless silhouette holding a phone to its shadow, its skeletal fingers mimicking her voice while rhythmically tapping against the wood.