The Library Phone

In 2017, Thomas, a 22-year-old history student, spent almost every evening at his university library. Known for being quiet and meticulous, he was always buried in books.

One November evening, while searching for a power outlet behind a dusty shelf, his hand bumped into a cold, flat object. Pulling it out, he discovered an old gray mobile phone, completely unbranded. It wasn’t a modern smartphone, but a sturdy model with a slightly scratched screen—seemingly from another era.

Curious, he pressed the power button. To his surprise, it turned on instantly, displaying a full battery.

He scrolled through the menu. Nothing—no contacts, no messages, no calls. Only a photo gallery.

And that’s when things started to get strange.

The first image was dated 1981.
It showed the entrance hall of the university—but not as Thomas had ever known it. The floor was covered in old tiles, and posters on the walls advertised events from over thirty years ago.

The next photo was from 1992, then 2003, then 2009.
Always the same locations, always from the same angles. It was as if someone—or something—had meticulously documented the university over decades.

As he scrolled, Thomas began noticing details:

• A bench that had been removed long ago
• A mural that had been painted over when he was a child
• Even a professor he still had classes with today… only decades younger.

The phone contained hundreds of photos spanning more than forty years. Yet, this model couldn’t have existed in 1981.

Then Thomas came across the final image.
It was dated tomorrow.

He froze.

The photo showed a table in the library.
His table.
On it sat his black backpack and laptop covered in stickers. And there he was—himself—sitting exactly as he was in the present moment.

Worse, a shadowy figure appeared behind him, blurry, as if it had materialized the instant the photo was taken.

That night, Thomas could not sleep.
He returned to the library as soon as it opened, determined to understand. He compared the photo angles with reality, noted the details, and checked the dates. Everything matched perfectly.

Every time he tried to turn off the phone, it powered back on by itself.
And each time he looked at the screen, he swore the reflection changed slightly: a subtle shift in his face, the lighting, or… a shadow standing just behind him.

At exactly 5:32 PM, the time shown on the last photo, Thomas sat at the same table, placing his backpack and laptop precisely as in the image.

The library was eerily silent.
His heart pounded, every second stretching into eternity.

5:31 PM.
5:32 PM.

He held his breath.

At that exact moment, he felt a cold hand on his shoulder.

He jumped and spun around—but there was no one.
No one… except the phone, lying on the table, which had just opened to a new image.

It was the same scene. But this time, Thomas was not in the photo.
Instead, the chair was empty.

The next day, his friends reported him missing.
The library was searched thoroughly, but the phone was never found.

Some students claim that if you go to the basement, the least-visited section of the library, you can feel a faint vibration—like an old phone forgotten somewhere.
And if you dare pick it up, the next photo in the gallery might just be you, dated for the following day.