TikTok Terror: The Hashtag Curse

It started innocently enough. It always does.

Riley was scrolling TikTok late one Friday night, her phone casting a soft blue glow across her room. She had just finished her shift at the coffee shop, her feet sore and her patience for human interaction worn thin. TikTok was her escape—the endless stream of silly dances, cooking tips, and funny pet videos was exactly what she needed to unwind.

That’s when she saw it. The video was simple, yet unsettling: a girl, maybe around her age, staring straight into the camera. Her eyes were wide, her face pale under dim lighting. She whispered, “If you see this, don’t scroll away. Please. You have to use the hashtag, or it’ll find you.”

Riley almost scrolled, but her thumb hesitated. The girl’s face was desperate, her eyes darting like she was being watched.

“It’s not a joke,” the girl said, her voice cracking. “The hashtag is #YourTurnNow. You have to use it. Tonight. Or it’ll come for you.”

The video ended abruptly, leaving Riley staring at the looping thumbnail of the girl’s terrified expression. Her heart thudded a little faster, though she told herself it was ridiculous. Just another creepy trend—TikTok loved those. She scrolled down.

Her feed seemed normal at first, more funny videos and viral dances. But then, she noticed something strange. Every few videos, there it was again: #YourTurnNow. Different people, all whispering the same plea—“You have to use it. Tonight. Or it’ll come for you.”

A chill ran down Riley’s spine. She swiped up again, but the hashtag kept appearing. Each time, the people looked more frantic. One guy was crying, holding up a piece of paper with the hashtag scribbled on it in red marker. A girl with smeared makeup was shaking so badly the camera kept going in and out of focus. Riley could almost feel the panic bleeding through the screen.

“This is stupid,” she muttered to herself. She clicked on the hashtag out of curiosity.

Thousands of videos. All of them different people, all terrified, all repeating the same warning. Some begged, others just stared at the camera, tears streaming silently. Riley felt her stomach turn. She knew these trends got out of hand sometimes, but this felt... different. Like there was something truly behind it.

She closed the app and tossed her phone onto the bed, trying to shake the unease gnawing at her. It was late, and she was tired—that’s all. A good night’s sleep, and she’d forget all about it.

The next day at work, Riley almost managed to put it out of her mind. Almost. Until her phone buzzed during her break, and she absentmindedly checked it. A TikTok notification. She didn’t remember opening the app, but there it was: a message from an unknown account. The message was a video link.

With a sigh, Riley clicked it.

It was her own apartment. The video was shot from outside her window, shaky and dark, but there was no mistaking the view. It panned from the street to her window, slowly zooming in. A whisper filled the audio: “Your turn now.”

Her stomach twisted, and she slammed her phone face down on the breakroom table. Her hands shook, and she felt the cold grip of panic start to set in. She couldn’t breathe—this was too real.

When she finally got home that evening, Riley immediately went to her window. She stared out at the street below, her eyes scanning the darkened sidewalk. Nothing. No one. But the sense of being watched crept up her spine, an icy claw she couldn’t shake.

Her phone buzzed again. Another notification. Her breath caught as she saw the username—it was the same one from earlier. She opened it, half-hoping it was just a bad joke.

The video loaded. This time, it was from inside her apartment. The camera moved slowly, capturing her couch, her TV, the photo frames on her wall. She could hear the whispering again, soft and almost teasing: “Your turn now.”

Riley’s hands went numb. She dropped the phone, and it clattered to the floor. She backed away, her eyes darting around the apartment. Someone had been here. Someone had been inside her home. Her chest felt tight, panic squeezing her lungs.

She knew what she had to do. Riley snatched her phone up from the floor, opened TikTok, and clicked on the camera. She stared at the lens, trying to steady her breathing.

“It’s not a joke,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You have to use the hashtag. #YourTurnNow. Do it tonight. Or it’ll come for you.”

She posted the video, her hands shaking. She waited, staring at the screen, hoping—praying—it would end. That whatever was happening would just stop.

Hours passed, and the apartment remained silent. Riley stayed up all night, her eyes darting to the window, the door, the shadows in the corners. Morning came, and she dared to believe it was over. She had done what the others had done. She had passed it on.

Her phone buzzed again, breaking the fragile calm.

It was another video. From a new account.

She opened it with a shaky hand. The video was dark, but she could just make out her bedroom. Her own sleeping face filled the frame, her eyes closed, her breathing soft. And then came the whisper:

“It’s not done with you yet.”