Unknown Number: The High School Catfish

There is a specific, jagged frequency to a smartphone vibration that can trigger an immediate spike in cortisol. We’ve all felt it—that late-night buzz-buzz on the nightstand that signals an emergency, a drunk text, or in the case of Lauryn Licari, a relentless barrage of digital venom. Unknown Number: The High School Catfish (2025) taps directly into that modern-day jugular. It’s a documentary that feels less like a traditional film and more like a high-speed car crash you’re viewing through a series of screenshots.

I watched this while sitting in a chair that has one leg slightly shorter than the others, meaning I had to balance myself like a tightrope walker every time a plot twist hit. It turns out that physical instability was the perfect metaphor for the narrative rug-pull director Skye Borgman was about to execute. If you’ve seen her previous work like Abducted in Plain Sight or Girl in the Picture, you know the drill: Borgman finds the most "middle-of-nowhere" suburban settings and unearths the kind of rot that makes you want to throw your Wi-Fi router into a lake.

The Digital Boogeyman is Real

The story centers on Lauryn Licari, a teenager whose life is derailed by an "Unknown Number" sending her and her boyfriend horrifying, vulgar, and strangely specific threats. The sheer volume of the harassment—over 300 pages of text records—is enough to make your skin crawl. As a viewer in the streaming era, I’ve become somewhat desensitized to true crime, but there’s something about the specific cruelty of these messages that feels uniquely 2020s. The internet has turned parental protection into a form of digital psychosis.

We follow the investigation as the local police and the family try to unmask the harasser. For the first thirty minutes, I was convinced I was watching a standard "creepy stalker" flick. But this is a Skye Borgman film, which means the truth isn't just out there—it's usually sitting on the sofa right next to the victim. When the investigation points toward a Virtual Private Network (VPN) being used to mask the harasser’s location, the digital breadcrumbs lead back to a place no one expected.

A Masterclass in Human Betrayal

Performance is a tricky word in a documentary, but Kendra Licari, Lauryn's mother, provides one of the most baffling and chilling "characters" I’ve seen on screen in years. Seeing her sit for interviews, recounting her "heroic" efforts to protect her daughter from the very messages she was secretly sending, is enough to give you a headache. The cinematography by Bryan Gosline is so polished it almost hides the fact that we’re essentially watching a high-tech version of a 1990s talk show segment.

The documentary handles the "reveal" with the precision of a thriller. It digs into the "why" without ever fully satisfying our need for a rational explanation—because there isn't one. It’s a portrait of Munchausen syndrome by proxy updated for the age of end-to-end encryption. The drama doesn't come from car chases; it comes from the look on Lauryn Licari’s face when she realizes her greatest advocate was her primary tormentor. It’s earned, heavy, and deeply uncomfortable.

Streaming Dread and Suburban Rot

Released in an era where Netflix and other platforms are saturated with true crime, Unknown Number manages to stand out because it feels so immediate. There’s no nostalgic distance here. This isn't a cold case from the 70s with grainy Polaroids; these are high-definition recordings and digital logs from just a couple of years ago. It reflects our current cultural anxiety about anonymity and the terrifying realization that you can never truly know what someone is doing behind their screen, even if they’re in the next room.

Interestingly, Skye Borgman has become the de facto poet laureate of the "suburban nightmare" genre. Apparently, she was drawn to this story because of the sheer volume of the evidence—the fact that the mother didn't just send a few texts, but created an entire digital universe of hate. It reminds me of the pacing in Searching or Missing, where the technology is the main character, but here, the hardware is just a tool for a very old-fashioned kind of betrayal.

This is a tight, 94-minute exercise in dread that doesn't overstay its welcome. While it occasionally leans on the "slow-motion recreation" tropes that are starting to feel a bit stale in the documentary world, the core story is so bizarre that it keeps you glued to the screen. It’s a stark reminder that in our hyper-connected world, the most dangerous strangers are sometimes the ones we share a data plan with.

If you’re looking for a comfortable night in, maybe skip this one and watch a rom-com. But if you want a film that accurately captures the specific paranoia of living your life through a 6-inch glass screen, Unknown Number is essential viewing. It’s a contemporary horror story where the monster doesn't hide under the bed—it hides in the "Sent" folder. Just don't blame me if you find yourself checking your blocked numbers list as soon as the credits roll.