The boxes were packed.
My apartment—my former apartment—echoed. Without the acoustic foam on the walls, without the rugs, without the furniture, every footstep slapped against the hardwood.
I picked up the last box. It held my headphones, my interface, and my microphone.
I hadn't put the headphones on since that night. I wasn't sure if I ever would again. The idea of isolating myself, of cutting off my peripheral senses, made my skin crawl.
I walked to the wall one last time.
The police had boarded up the hole with a sheet of plywood, painted with a stark red DO NOT ENTER spray-paint tag.
I pressed my hand against the wood. It was cold.
I knew, logically, that the chase was empty. Elias was in a secure psychiatric ward. The building was condemned pending a full structural search. But old habits die hard.
I closed my eyes and listened.
I didn't hear tapping. I didn't hear breathing. I didn't hear the sliding of a body through a narrow space.
I heard the settling of the foundation. I heard the water running in the pipes. I heard the wind buffering the brickwork.
Silence wasn't heavy anymore. Silence was just empty. And that was the problem.
In the silence, your brain fills in the gaps. It invents the monster because the monster is better than the void.
I picked up my box and walked to the door. I didn't look back.
My new place is in the city. It’s above a busy intersection. There’s a dive bar downstairs that plays classic rock until 2 AM. There’s a fire station two blocks over. The traffic never stops.
It’s loud. It’s chaotic. The noise floor is terrible for recording.
I sleep like a baby.
Closing Note：
I must decline all collaboration requests.
If you'd like to enjoy more great stories, please feel free to find me on Discord:
https://discord.gg/M4nEZ7TzW7
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.