I live in a ranch house in Idaho. I rent this house from my landlord, who we’ll call Frank. Frank is a very strange man. He talks so little that I’ve only heard a few dozen words from him. About a month ago, he popped in and said that he needed to do a checkup on my crawlspace. He does stuff like this quite a bit. It’s to the point where it kind of bugs me. I let him go into my crawlspace and he was in there for a while.
After a couple of hours had passed, I texted him and asked if he had found anything of note down there. I received a reply that read, “Wdym?” I repeated what I had just told him. He then sent me a message that chilled me to my core. He said, “I’m not in your crawlspace.” I started losing my mind. I was thinking, “If the man in my crawlspace isn’t Frank, who is he?” I immediately locked the trapdoor that leads to my crawlspace and put the heaviest object I could find on it.
I yelled at the man in my crawlspace, “What are you?” He replied in a weirded-out tone, “I’m Frank, your landlord.” I said, “No you’re not. What are you?” I could hear him try to open the trapdoor to no avail. He screamed at me, “What’re you talking about? Let me out!” I said in a shaky voice, “The real Frank texted me. You’re a liar.” He started banging on the trapdoor like a maniac as he frantically said, “What real Frank? I am Frank! Let me out! Please! I’m the real Frank! You have to believe me!” I didn’t believe him.
I questioned him for a few hours. He denied all of the accusations that I threw at him. At a certain point, I was almost convinced that he was the real Frank. I texted the real Frank again for confirmation that the one in my crawlspace was fake, but he didn’t answer. I thought that this was a bit strange, but I brushed it off as it was late. After probably ten hours, the thing stopped answering my questions. I tried screaming at it, but it wouldn’t say a word. I went to bed but I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about what would happen if it escaped the crawlspace. When the morning came, I went to question the fake Frank again. He still wouldn’t answer.
About a month later, I decided that I was brave enough to check what had happened to the imposter. I unlocked the trapdoor to the crawlspace and opened it. What I found nauseated me. It was the decomposing body of Frank. I stumbled back and called the police. When they came, I told them everything. I was going to show them the texts that Frank had sent me, but they were gone. It said that Frank’s number had never existed. This had me hyperventilating. Who had texted me? Was it a prank? Could it have possibly been some sort of a creature who texted me? I don’t know. The cops blamed me for Frank’s murder and I’m going to court tomorrow. Wish me luck.