7

Silence floods the air again, thick and suffocating, wrapping around me like a heavy shroud. My heartbeat hammers wildly against my ribcage, a frantic, uneven rhythm that feels loud enough to echo through the room.

I press a hand to my chest, as if that could quiet it, but the thumping only grows more insistent, pulsing in my ears.

This kind of scene—it’s the stuff of late-night thriller movies or those cheesy horror flicks I’d binge with friends, laughing at the jump scares from the safety of a crowded couch. It’s not supposed to happen to me.

Not here, not now. No way. It can’t.

My brain rebels against the idea, clinging to denial like a lifeline, but the creeping dread gnawing at my gut tells a different story.

My mind spins out of control, racing through a dozen nightmarish possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last.

What if it’s a psychopath, some deranged intruder with a knife, stalking through my apartment with cold intent?

Or worse—what if it’s a ghost, some restless spirit slipping through the walls, untouchable and vengeful?

I can’t decide which is more horrifying: a flesh-and-blood killer I could maybe outrun, or an ethereal presence I’d be powerless against. My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, the dry click audible in the stillness.

This isn’t the time to weigh which one’s more bearable, Nevaeh, I scold myself silently, my inner voice sharp with desperation. Focus. You have to focus.

Then it happens—a sound so distinct it freezes the blood in my veins. The soft, deliberate click of a door closing somewhere in the apartment. In the dead silence, it’s impossible to miss, followed by the faint shuffle of movement—slow, careful, deliberate.

My heart lurches, nearly stopping altogether.

Oh, God. It’s a burglar.

The realization slams into me like a freight train, stripping away any lingering hope that this is just my imagination running wild. I squeeze my eyes shut for a fleeting second, praying this is a nightmare I’ll wake from, sweat-soaked but safe.

If it were a ghost, maybe chanting prayers could banish it—something my grandma taught me when I was little, clutching her rosary during stormy nights.

But a criminal?

A living, breathing person with a motive and a weapon?

No amount of whispered pleas will stop that.

My trembling hand fumbles toward the nightstand, fingers brushing against the cool plastic of the telephone. I grip the handle, nearly dropping it as my shaky grasp falters, and manage to punch in the number for the building’s operator. This place has security—round-the-clock guards, cameras, the works. Dad wouldn’t have let me move in otherwise.

The phone rings once, twice, each tone stretching into eternity, until a calm, professional voice breaks through.

“Good evening. How may I help you?” the woman says, her tone so steady it feels jarringly out of place against the chaos in my head.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words lodge in my throat. My eyes dart toward the bedroom doorway, and my stomach drops. The dim light from the living room shifts—a shadow, long and distorted, stretches across the floor, inching closer.

It’s moving.

The phone slips in my sweaty grip, and I clutch it tighter, terror clawing at my chest.

What if the intruder hears me asking for help? What if they decide to threaten my life on impulse? Should I just beg them to spare my life and take all my belongings instead?

“Someone—” The word catches in my throat, strangled by the panic surging through me like wildfire. My voice trembles, a fragile, quivering thing I barely recognize as my own.

“Someone just broke into my apartment.”

The confession spills out in a rush, each syllable shaking as I clutch the phone tighter, my lifeline to the outside world.

The air grows thick, pressing against my chest, and then I hear it: the footsteps.

They’re closer now, deliberate and unhurried, the distinct tap-tap of shoes striking the wooden floor growing sharper with every second. Each sound reverberates through the stillness, a countdown to something I can’t yet name, and my breath hitches as dread coils tighter around my heart.

“Are you calling from your bedroom, Ms. Spencer?”

The operator’s voice cuts through the haze, snapping from calm professionalism to sharp alertness in an instant.

“If you are, can you lock the door now while security is on the way? I’m sending them right now.”

Her urgency jolts me into action, a flicker of hope piercing the fog of fear. I fling the blanket aside and shoot up from the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud. My legs wobble beneath me, unsteady from adrenaline, but I lunge for the door.

Why didn’t I do this first?

The thought stabs at me, bitter and accusing. I’d been paralyzed, convinced that reaching for the phone was my only shot at survival—that any movement might alert whoever was out there before help could come.

I grasp the doorknob, my sweaty palm slipping against the metal, and start to pull it shut. But just as the door begins to swing closed, a sudden force slams against it, shoving me backward. A yelp escapes my lips—a small, involuntary scream that echoes in the quiet—before I stumble, my heels catching on the rug.

The door flies open, nearly clipping my shoulder, and I catch myself against the edge of the bed, heart pounding so fiercely I think it might burst. I look up, breath ragged, and freeze.

A man looms in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint glow spilling in from the living room.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a security uniform—crisp navy fabric with a badge glinting faintly in the dimness. The sight of him knocks the air from my lungs, but not for the reason I’d expected.

Even in the near-darkness, with only the muted shimmer of city lights filtering through my bedroom window, I recognize him.

It’s him—the middle-aged security guard from the lobby, the one I’ve passed countless times since moving in.

His face is familiar: weathered skin, a neatly trimmed beard, those dark eyes that always seemed to linger a beat too long when he nodded at me downstairs.

I’d thought it was nothing—just a quirk, a habit of a man paid to notice people. But now, standing here in my bedroom, he’s no burglar in a ski mask, no faceless threat from a nightmare. And somehow, that makes it worse.

My pulse spikes as his gaze locks onto me, roaming over my features with an intensity that sends icy chills cascading down my spine.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there, a towering figure blocking the doorway, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. He's staring at me like I'm the most precious object in this room. I step back as my pulse quickens.

“What are you doing here?” My voice wavers as I force the words out, though deep down, I’m not naive enough to miss the truth clawing at my senses.

He’s not here to check a breaker or patrol the halls—his presence reeks of something darker, something wrong.

“Are you checking my apartment? But I didn’t call anyone,” I ramble on, the words tumbling out in a frantic stream as I try to buy time.

My tongue feels clumsy, tripping over itself, but I keep going, clinging to the faint hope that the other security guards—the ones the operator promised—are already racing up the stairs.

“Everything’s under control,” I lie, my tone brittle, praying he doesn’t hear the tremor beneath it. I take another cautious step back, my bare feet pressing into the rug, every muscle taut as I gauge the distance between us.

To my horror, he steps forward, closing the gap I’d fought to create. His head tilts slightly, a predator sizing up its prey, and his dark eyes stay fixed on me, unblinking, relentless.

A calm smile curls the corner of his lips, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring this moment.

“Ms. Spencer,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, rolling through the room like a storm cloud.

It drips with something vile—lust, obsession—and the sound twists my stomach into a nauseous knot. I swallow hard, fighting the bile rising in my throat, my skin prickling with revulsion.

“You’re pretty, don’t you know that?” The words slither out, heavy with intent, and I freeze, my breath catching as disbelief crashes over me.

This isn’t just a guard doing his rounds. This is the man meant to protect us—me—revealed as a monster, a stalker hiding behind a badge.

Tears sting the corners of my eyes, hot and unwanted, but I blink them back, clenching my jaw to hold myself together.

I can’t fall apart—not now. My gaze darts around the room, frantic, searching for anything—a book, a shoe, the damn phone cord—to defend myself with. But before I can act, he moves again, closing the distance with a single stride.

My retreat falters, and my legs bump against the bedframe. I stumble, my knees buckling, and I hit the mattress with a muffled thud. Panic surges as I roll onto my side, scrambling to face him, my hands gripping the sheets like they could anchor me to safety.

He’s already there, towering over me, a shadowed giant against the faint city glow seeping through the window.

My chest heaves, breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and my lips tremble as a soft, helpless cry escapes me.

His eyes glint in the dimness, wide and wild with a sick excitement that makes my skin crawl. He’s not just staring—he’s feasting on my fear.

He’s sick. He’s unhinged. A predator in a uniform, and I’m trapped beneath his gaze. His face begins to lower toward mine. Instinct explodes through me—raw, primal, desperate—and I lash out.

With every ounce of strength I can muster, I drive my heel into his chest, a sharp, forceful kick that connects with a dull thud.

A groan rumbles from his throat, low and startled, and the sound fuels me. My hands scrabble across the nightstand, fingers closing around the cool metal base of the bedside lamp.

I yank it free, the cord snapping loose, and swing it with all my might. The heavy base cracks against his skull, a sickening crunch echoing in the room. He groans again, louder this time, the noise twisting from surprise to rage, his calm facade shattering as he staggers back, clutching his head.

I scramble away from the bed, my bare feet slipping against the hardwood as I lunge for freedom, but his hand clamps around my ankle like a vice.

A sharp yank pulls me down, and I crash to the floor with a jarring thud, my face slamming against the cold wood. Pain blooms across my cheek and nose, a dull ache pulsing through me, and a whimper escapes my lips, raw and involuntary.

Before I can even process the sting, a deafening bang erupts—the front door bursting open, splintering the suffocating silence.

The room explodes with noise: rushed footsteps pounding against the floor, sharp shouts overlapping in a chaotic symphony of urgency. I twist my head just enough to see shadows flood in, and then, mercifully, the iron grip on my leg vanishes.

He’s off me.

A figure looms closer—a different security guard, his uniform crisp and familiar—and he reaches down, offering a hand to lift me up.

But my nerves are frayed to breaking, and I scream, a shrill, jagged sound that tears from my throat as I slap his hand away.

My body recoils, instinct driving me back until I collide with the bedframe’s leg. I curl into myself, knees drawn tight to my chest, trembling uncontrollably as I press against the wood for stability.

My eyes dart wildly, taking in the scene unfolding before me.

Two other guards wrestle the psycho—Nico, I’ll later learn—pinning him face-down on the floor.

His arms twist behind him as metal clanks; one of them snaps handcuffs around his wrists, the sharp click cutting through his furious thrashing.

“What the fuck are you doing, Dave? Get off me!” Nico snarls, his voice dripping with venom as he glares at the guard holding him down.

Dave—his friend, apparently—stares back, his face a mask of shock and betrayal, though his hands stay firm, doing the job he’s trained for. The other guards wear the same stunned expressions, their wide eyes and slack jaws betraying disbelief.

They can’t fathom it—their colleague, their buddy, unraveling into this monster.

But I can. I’ve felt the weight of his stare, the sickness in his calm smile. And now, as I huddle here, the room spinning with their voices and movements, a new darkness creeps over me, heavier than before.

They’re friends. Colleagues.

How can I trust any of them? What if they’re cut from the same cloth, hiding behind badges and polite nods just like he did?

The guard who’d tried to help me—Dave, maybe?—kneels a cautious distance away, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. His eyes meet mine, soft with regret, and I see the apology there before he even speaks.

“We’re very sorry for what just happened, Ms. Spencer,” he says, his voice steady but laced with genuine sympathy.

“We apologize for this incident. We didn’t expect that Nico would commit such a crime.”

His words hang in the air, meant to soothe, but they feel hollow against the raw terror still clawing at my insides. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, fingers digging into my skin as if I could hold the pieces of me together.

My body shakes, a tear drops to my cheek as I listen to him, but I know that even though I've been rescued, this place will never be the same to me.