[ WP ] Write a horror story . Difficulty : the protagonist has a fully functional cell-phone with them at all times .

Marc sped up his pace and turned the corner. He glanced back as he turned. Yes, the guy was still back there. Still following. You could hear his boots crunching on the re-frozen slush and salted walks. 
 
 Marc pulled off a glove and fumbled with his phone. Uber, yes please. He dropped a pin on the next corner and called a car. He blew into his fist to keep his fingers warm while his ride loaded. Black Honda Civic. Estimated arrival, fifteen minutes. Crap. 
 
 Marc jogged a little way, got to the next pool of light. 
 
 There could be perfectly reasonable explanations for a guy in a trench coat and a knit cap to be wandering through the warehouse district in the middle of the night. For example, if your friend Roy told you about an awesome rave at the Steelhaus, but got the time and the date wrong. 
 
 Speaking of which. 
 
 *hate u so much rn* he texted. 
 
 *dude, did u go??? * Roy answered, *didn ’ t u see my fb msg? *. 
 
 The footsteps approached the corner behind Marc. Maybe the guy wouldn ’ t turn. Maybe he was an on-call snowplow driver, or something. The guy turned. When Marc looked back, the man ’ s face – if he had one – was hidden in shadow. 
 
 Marc ducked past a parked pickup and crossed the street. He stepped in a pothole, shattered the ice, and soaked his foot. The shock of frigid water made him stop. This was silly. Of course the guy had a face. And probably the guy wasn ’ t following him. If Marc just turned and asked him for a cigarette or something, he ’ d turn out to be just a normal dude with a crappy work shift. 
 
 Marc forced himself to turn. 
 
 The man was standing perfectly still in the middle of the street. In his shadowed face, eyes gleamed. 
 
 Marc suddenly realized something. Each of his own breaths sent a puff of fog off into the night. The man in the trench coat wasn ’ t breathing. And in the light dusting of new snow covering the street, he left no footprints. 
 
 Marc ran. He ran blindly, turning right and left, looking back always to see the man in the trench coat plodding methodically around the most recent turn. He came to a place where there was a truck backed up against warehouse doors, and slipped into the narrow gap it made. 
 
 Roy had texted him a bunch more: 
 
 *dude where r u? * 
 *do u need a ride? * 
 *hold tight i will pick u up* 
 *10 min* 
 
 Marc risked a look out from behind the truck. The street seemed empty. Silent. He switched to Uber. Three minutes, but now he was turned around. Marc took a minute to work out where he was, and where the uber corner was. He looked around the truck again, and bit back a curse. The guy was there, standing by the nearest stop sign, turning slowly and shading his eyes with his hand, as if peering into the shadows. 
 
 Marc ’ s phone rang, loud in the silence. He did swear then, and broke into a flat-out run. Marc slapped at the phone as he ran – it didn ’ t respond at first to his cold, wet fingers. 
 
 “ Hello? ” said Roy, distant and shaky. 
 
 “ I ’ m being chased! ” Marc whispered. 
 
 “ What? I can ’ t hear you, there ’ s a lot of wind. ” 
 
 “ BEING CHASED, ” Marc shouted. 
 
 He turned the last corner toward where the Uber ought to be. He slowed to a trot, trying to catch his breath. Tires crunched on the snow, and headlights played on the nearby buildings. The car rolled to a halt right where it should. The window rolled down. Marc was only half a block away – but he froze. 
 
 The man in the trench coat had appeared, as if he ’ d melted from the shadow cast by a telephone pole. He leaned toward the uber, shook his head. The uber left in a hurry, tires screeching. 
 
 Marc backpedaled as the man in the trench coat began to turn. 
 
 *need that ride* he texted. 
 
 *where u at* 
 
 *Steelhaus* 
 
 *am close* 
 
 Marc jogged the four blocks back to Steelhaus, earning a pain in his ribs. He crouched behind a concrete loading dock across the street from Steelhaus. A little late, he switched his phone to vibrate. 
 
 *and I called 911* Roy texted, *said u had a heart attack* 
 
 Marc peeked over edge of his hiding place. The man in the trench coat was a block away, silhouetted against a streetlight filled with falling snow. 
 
 *call when u get here* Marc texted *am being watched* 
 
 Just then he heard the telltale squeal and rattle of Roy ’ s old Corolla. It zoomed down the street and braked hard to a halt. Marc didn ’ t wait for it to stop all the way. He dashed forward, grabbed the door handle and dove into the back seat. 
 
 “ Just drive! ” he yelled. Marc sat up and pressed his face against the glass, looking back along the dim-lit street. But the man in the trench coat wasn ’ t in the street. 
 
 He was in the driver ’ s seat. 
 
 
 Epilogue: 
 “ It ’ s so weird, ” said Roy, to the obviously irritated EMT, “ He literally just texted me like three seconds ago. Here, let me call him again. ” 
 
 “ Give it up, kid, ” said the EMT, taking a last drag on his cigarette, stamping it out in the fresh-fallen snow. “ You got pranked, and now you ’ re wasting my time. ” 
 
 In a snow bank nearby, Marc ’ s phone shook seven times, and went dark.
