Chapter 3: The Digital Ghost

The Instagram notification arrived at 3:22 AM—the exact same time as the banking alert that had started this nightmare. Ethan wasn't asleep; he'd given up on the pretense hours ago. Instead, he sat hunched over his laptop at his kitchen table, obsessively searching for any trace of his name connected to Michigan, Ann Arbor, or the Whitmore Treatment Center.

His phone buzzed against the granite countertop, the screen lighting up with a message that made his stomach clench: @TheWatcherReturns sent you a direct message.

Maya stirred on the couch where she'd insisted on staying for the third night running. Her cybersecurity firm had given her time off after she'd explained she was helping a friend with a "complex digital stalking situation." The official story was sanitized, professional. The reality was far more disturbing.

"Another one?" she asked, immediately alert despite having dozed off only an hour earlier.

Ethan nodded, unable to speak. He opened the message with trembling fingers.

YOU WERE THERE TOO. Room 237. The day everything changed. Stop pretending you don't remember.

Attached was a photograph that made Ethan's vision blur at the edges. It showed the interior of what looked like a hospital room—white walls, a narrow bed with industrial-grade sheets, a small window with bars. But it wasn't the room itself that sent ice through his veins. It was the perspective. The photo had been taken from inside the room, looking out toward the door, as if the photographer had been lying in the bed.

"Maya," Ethan's voice came out as a croak. "Look at this."

She crossed to him quickly, studying the image over his shoulder. Her expression grew increasingly troubled as she took in the details. "This looks like a psychiatric facility. The window bars, the type of bed, even the paint color—it's institutional."

"The Whitmore Treatment Center," Ethan whispered. "Room 237. That's what the business card said."

Maya was already opening her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "I'm running a reverse image search. If this photo exists anywhere else online, I'll find it."

While she worked, more messages arrived from @TheWatcherReturns, each one accompanied by increasingly personal photographs. A child's drawing that looked like it had been done in crayon, showing two stick figures standing in front of a building with the words "Best Friends Forever" scrawled across the top. A blurry photo of what appeared to be two boys, maybe twelve or thirteen, sitting on a hospital bed together—one face clearly visible and unmistakably a younger version of Ethan, the other deliberately obscured by shadow.

"These photos," Maya said quietly, "they're not staged. Look at the quality, the lighting, the way they're composed. These are authentic memories, Ethan. Someone really did take these pictures, probably years ago."

Ethan stared at the image of his younger self. The boy in the photo was definitely him—same dark hair, same serious expression, even wearing a t-shirt he vaguely remembered owning in middle school. But he had absolutely no memory of being in that hospital room, no recollection of the other boy whose face remained tantalizingly hidden.

"This is impossible," he said for what felt like the hundredth time in three days.

"Memory suppression is a real thing," Maya said gently. "Trauma can cause the brain to block out entire experiences, especially in children. Maybe—"

"No." Ethan's voice was sharp. "I would remember being in a psychiatric hospital. I would remember having a best friend I apparently cared enough about to draw pictures with. These aren't just casual memories, Maya. These are significant events. Life-changing events."

Another message arrived: You abandoned me there. Left me alone in that room for three years. But I never forgot you, Ethan. I never stopped waiting.

"Okay, that's enough." Maya's protective instincts kicked in. "I'm tracing this account right now. Whoever this is, they've crossed every line."

She pulled up a complex array of digital forensics tools, her screen filling with IP addresses, routing tables, and network maps. Ethan watched her work, marveling as always at her ability to navigate the digital world with such precision. If anyone could unmask their tormentor, it would be Maya.

But after two hours of intensive searching, her expression grew increasingly frustrated.

"This is impossible," she said, echoing his earlier words. "The account is routing through at least seven different VPN servers across four countries. The payment information leads to a prepaid card purchased with cash at a convenience store in Detroit—no security cameras, no record of the buyer. Even the email address used to create the account was generated through a temporary service that automatically deletes everything after 24 hours."

"So we can't trace them?"

"It's not just that we can't trace them," Maya said, her voice tight with professional frustration. "It's that whoever set this up has skills that rival intelligence agencies. This level of operational security isn't something you learn from YouTube tutorials. This person is either a professional or they've had years to plan this."

As if responding to their conversation, another message arrived: You can't hide from me anymore than I could hide from you. We're connected, Ethan. We always have been.

This time, the attached photo showed Ethan's own apartment building, taken from the street level. But it wasn't a current photo—the image showed a different car parked in front, and the small coffee shop on the ground floor had a different name than the one that had been there for the past two years.

"When was this taken?" Maya asked, studying the details.

Ethan looked closer, his breath catching as he recognized specific details. "That's my car," he said, pointing to a blue Honda Civic visible in the frame. "But I sold that car three years ago. This photo is at least three years old."

"Which means they've been watching you for years," Maya said quietly. "This isn't a recent obsession. This is long-term surveillance."

The realization hit Ethan like a physical blow. For years, someone had been out there, watching him, photographing him, collecting information about his life. Someone who claimed to know him from childhood, who insisted they had shared some traumatic experience in a psychiatric hospital.

His phone buzzed again. This time, instead of a photo, the message contained a short video. Shaky handheld footage showed Ethan leaving his office building, talking on his phone, completely unaware he was being recorded. The timestamp showed it had been filmed just two days ago.

I know your routines. I know you buy coffee from the shop on State Street when you're anxious. I know you walk the long way home when you're thinking about work. I know you better than you know yourself.

"Jesus Christ," Maya whispered. "They're watching you in real time."

Ethan's apartment suddenly felt like a fishbowl. Every window seemed like a potential surveillance point, every shadow a possible hiding place. The fifteen floors that had once made him feel safe now felt like a prison tower, visible from every angle.

"We need to call the police," Maya said.

"And tell them what? That someone is sending me Instagram messages claiming we were childhood friends? That I'm receiving photos I don't remember posing for?" Ethan laughed bitterly. "They'll think I'm having a breakdown. Hell, maybe I am."

"You're not having a breakdown. This is real, and it's escalating."

As if to prove her point, his phone rang. The caller ID showed a number he didn't recognize, but the area code was 734—Michigan.

"Don't answer it," Maya said.

But Ethan was already swiping to accept the call. He needed to know. Whatever was happening to him, whoever was doing this, he couldn't keep running from it.

"Hello?" His voice was barely steady.

"Ethan?" The voice on the other end was male, roughly his age, with a slight rasp as if the speaker had been crying. "God, it's so good to hear your voice."

"Who is this?"

"You really don't remember, do you?" The voice carried a mixture of sadness and something that might have been anger. "Room 237. The day they took you away. You promised you'd come back for me."

Ethan's grip tightened on the phone. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The accident, Ethan. The fire. You were there when it happened. We both were. But they let you forget, didn't they? They gave you a clean slate, a new life, while I..." The voice broke. "While I rotted in that place for three years."

"You're lying." But even as Ethan said it, something deep in his chest twisted with what felt almost like recognition.

"I have the burn scars to prove it. Do you want to see them? I can send photos."

The line went dead.

Ethan stared at his phone, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped it. Maya was watching him with growing alarm.

"What did they say?"

"Something about an accident. A fire. They claim I was there when it happened." Ethan set the phone down as if it might explode. "Maya, what if they're telling the truth? What if there really is something I can't remember?"

Before Maya could answer, another Instagram message arrived. This time it was a photo of a newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. The headline read: "TWO BOYS INJURED IN YOUTH CENTER FIRE - One Critical, One Stable."

The article was dated fifteen years ago, when Ethan would have been thirteen. But the text was too blurry to read clearly, and the photo accompanying the story showed only the exterior of a building he didn't recognize.

This is where it started, the message read. This is why you owe me.

"I need to see that newspaper," Ethan said suddenly. "The actual article, not just this photo. If this really happened, there will be records. Police reports, hospital records, something."

Maya nodded, already opening new browser windows. "I'll start with newspaper archives for Ann Arbor and surrounding areas. If there really was a fire at a youth center fifteen years ago, we'll find it."

But as she began her search, Ethan couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking deeper into a trap. Every answer they found seemed to lead to more questions, every piece of evidence made his world feel less solid, less real.

Outside his window, Chicago stretched out in its familiar grid of lights. But somewhere in that vast cityscape, or perhaps hundreds of miles away in Michigan, someone was watching. Someone who claimed to remember what Ethan had forgotten. Someone who insisted that a debt was owed, and the time for payment was coming due.

The digital ghost that had haunted him for three days was becoming more real with each message, each photo, each impossible piece of evidence. And deep down, in a place he didn't want to acknowledge, Ethan was beginning to fear that the ghost might be telling the truth.