Pocong Creepy Video Call Horror
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The phone rattles against the table, its shrill ring clawing through the suffocating quiet of your room. You lift the receiver—static hisses, then a voice like wet soil crumbling from a coffin’s edge spills into your ear. It doesn’t speak. It *unfolds*—a hollow, guttural rasp that knots your spine. Shadows writhe in the corners, thicker where the lamplight refuses to touch. The air cloys with the tang of damp earth and something older, something that shouldn’t have a name. Fingers of frost creep up the windowpane, etching symbols you can’t decipher but feel humming in your molars. Across the line, cloth shifts—a dry, papery whisper—as though something bound tight is straining to unravel. A low moan trembles, not from the phone, but from the walls themselves. The call doesn’t end. It seeps. It lingers. And when you finally slam the receiver down, your palm leaves a smudge of grave dirt behind.
