I held my breath. The silence stretched out, taut as a piano wire.
Scritch. Slide.
It was the ceiling.
Specifically, the ceiling above the hallway leading to my bedroom.
I slowly stood up. My legs felt like they were made of wood. I moved quietly, stepping in my socks, avoiding the squeaky floorboard near the rug.
I walked to the doorway of the studio and peered into the dark hallway.
Slide... thud.
It sounded like a heavy bag of sand being dragged across the attic floor. But there was no attic. Above me was just a flat roof and a crawl space for the HVAC ducts.
The sound was moving. It was slow, deliberate. It was moving from the shared wall, traversing the ceiling, heading toward the center of my apartment.
I grabbed the nearest heavy object—a metal microphone stand. It was a pathetic weapon, essentially a hollow pipe, but it was better than my fists.
The sliding stopped.
I stood in the hallway, looking up. Right above me was the intake vent for the central heating. It was a large, square metal grate, painted the same "Landlord Beige" as the rest of the place.
I stared at it.
Dust motes danced in the sliver of light coming from the streetlamp outside.
Then, a small cascade of gray dust drifted down from the vent, sprinkling onto the floorboards.
Click.
It was a metallic sound. Sharp.
I took a step back, raising the mic stand like a baseball bat.
Click.
I squinted at the vent cover. It was held in place by four screws, one in each corner.
The screw in the bottom left corner was moving.
I watched, paralyzed by a horror so specific and absurd my brain refused to process it. The screw head was slowly, jerkily rotating counter-clockwise.
Squeak.
Someone wasn't unscrewing it from the outside.
They were unscrewing it from the inside.
"Hey!" I shouted. The word tore out of my throat, ragged and terrified. "I have a gun! Get out!"
I didn't have a gun. I had a microphone stand and a severe anxiety disorder.
The screwing stopped instantly.
Silence returned. Heavy. Watchful.
I stood there for ten seconds, then twenty. My arms were shaking so bad the mic stand was vibrating in my grip.
"I called the police!" I yelled at the ceiling. "They’re on their way back!"
Nothing. No retreating footsteps. No scuttling away. Just absolute stillness.
Whoever was up there hadn't left. They were just waiting.
I backed away slowly, keeping my eyes glued to the vent. I retreated into the living room, putting distance between me and that hallway.
I needed to leave. I needed to get out of this apartment right now.
I fumbled for my car keys on the entry table. My hands were slippery with sweat. I grabbed them, dropping the keychain once before snatching it up.
I threw the chair away from the door, unlatched the chain, and unlocked the deadbolt. I burst out into the main hallway of the duplex, gasping for air like I’d been underwater.
The hallway was cold. The automatic light flickered on with a buzz.
I ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, nearly tripping over my own feet. I burst out the front door into the rainy night.
The cold air hit my face, shocking me back to reality. I ran to my car, a beat-up sedan parked at the curb. I jammed the key into the door lock.
I was going to a hotel. I was going to sleep in the lobby of the police station. I didn't care. I just wasn't sleeping under that vent.
I turned the key and yanked the handle. I threw myself into the driver's seat and locked the doors instantly.
"Okay," I panted. "Okay. Go."
I jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine sputtered and roared to life.
I threw it into reverse and hit the gas.
The car didn't move.
The engine revved, the RPMs climbed, but the car just shuddered in place.
I frowned. I shifted into drive. Hit the gas.
Thump-thump-thump.
The car limped forward three inches, vibrating violently.
I killed the engine and opened the door. I stepped out into the rain, looking down at my tires.
The front driver's side tire was flat. Shredded.
I walked around the car.
The back tire. Flat.
The passenger side tires. Flat.
All four of them. Slashed.
The rubber was hanging in ribbons. And there, sticking out of the sidewall of the rear tire, was a tool.
It was an old, rusty screwdriver. The handle was wrapped in dirty electrical tape.
I stared at it, the rain plastering my hair to my forehead. This wasn't random vandalism. Kids slash one tire.
This was a siege.
I looked back at the house. The duplex loomed over me, a dark, brick monolith against the night sky. The windows were black eyes, staring down.
And then I saw it.
In the window of my own apartment—the living room window I had just fled—the curtains twitched.
Just a little. Just enough to let a sliver of light from the streetlamp catch the pale, gaunt face pressing against the glass.
He was inside.
He wasn't in the walls anymore. He was in my living room.
And I was outside, in the rain, with a dead car and nowhere to go.
The figure in the window raised a hand. It looked thin, skeletal. And then, slowly, rhythmically, he tapped on the glass.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I wasn't the one with the headphones anymore. But I heard the message loud and clear.
Come back inside, Mark. We’re not done playing.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.