Chapter 1 · One Hundred Pounds

I got up for some water when my phone suddenly buzzed.

A new message popped up in the usually dead group chat, "Happy Homes."

The message read: [Guys, sorry. I've got about 100 pounds of meat at home that I forgot to put in the fridge, and it's gone bad.

[It stinks pretty bad. Will it block the pipes if I chop them up and dump them down the drain?]

The time stamp read 3:14 AM.

My hand stopped halfway to my mouth, glass in hand. A cold shiver shot up from my feet right to my head.

It was August, Fritzburg's hottest season. I wondered who would keep 100 pounds of meat at home and let it rot.

*****

The group chat was dead silent. At this hour, most people were sound asleep.

After about two minutes, the grumpy old man from Room 502, who was always up at night, sent a voice message, his tone muffled and angry.

He shouted, [What are you doing at this hour? 100 pounds? Did you buy a whole pig or something?

[If it stinks, take it to the trash. Why dump it down the drain? If you clog the pipes, the people downstairs will come after you!]

Scott Reese replied instantly, just two words: [Too heavy.]

Then he added, [And there's blood. I'm worried it'll stain the elevator and someone will complain.]

I set down my glass, holding my breath, my gaze unconsciously drawn to the ceiling.

I lived in Room 304, and Scott was right above me.

This old apartment building had terrible soundproofing.

In the unnervingly silent night, I could faintly hear something moving upstairs.

It wasn't normal footsteps. It was a dull, sticky, dragging noise.

Scrape, scrape, thud.

It sounded like a heavy, sloshy sack being slowly dragged across the tile floor, inch by inch, toward the bathroom.

My heart started pounding.

That number of 100 pounds stuck in my head like a splinter.

I'd met Scott before. He was in his thirties, a burly guy with a rough face and a hostile glare.

His wife, Melody Reese, was skinny and soft, always keeping her head down and barely speaking above a whisper.

Last week, I ran into them in the elevator. Scott was drunk and started yelling at Melody right in front of me. "You jinx! No matter what you eat, you never put on any weight. Hugging you is like holding a bag of bones."

Melody shrank into the corner, and to humiliate her even more, Scott called out her weight. "For someone your size, only 100 pounds! Even a pig would fatten up better than you!"

The dragging noise from upstairs suddenly stopped.

Then came a sudden gush of water. Someone was running water in the bathtub.

A few seconds later, an even creepier sound echoed through the silence.

It sounded like a chainsaw buzzing. But it was too loud for that.

It sounded like a handheld saw, or maybe... a blender spinning empty, then suddenly hitting something solid.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

That was the chilling crack of metal blades breaking bone.

My stomach churned violently.

Out of nowhere, Scott sent another message to the group chat.

This time, it was a photo.

The bathroom was dimly lit, bathed in a sickly yellow glow.

A few oversized black trash bags were piled on the floor, their tops knotted tight, but people could still make out a puddle of dark red liquid oozing from underneath.

The caption read: [Sorry, the stench is pretty intense. I'll try to mask it with some toilet cleaner.]

I stared at the photo, unable to tear my eyes away.

At the very edge of the image, wedged between the trash bags, something seemed to be peeking out.

If people weren't paying close attention, they'd probably mistake it for a chunk of meat.

I pinched the screen to zoom in for a better look.

It was a fingernail.

It was painted with red nail polish and had a cheap rhinestone glued on top.

I recognized the nail.

Yesterday afternoon, when I was picking up my package, Melody was in front of me. As she signed for hers, I saw those same red nails with a rhinestone.

The noise from upstairs suddenly stopped.

The world went dead silent.

Just as I was hesitating about calling the cops, a heavy thud sounded right above my head.

Then my phone buzzed.

It wasn't from the group chat. It was a private message.

It was sent from Scott in Room 404.

It read: [Ms. Moreno, are you still awake? I think I just heard your chair move.]

I felt my blood freeze all at once.

I didn't move my chair.

I didn't even dare to breathe.

He was probing. He was checking to see if anyone downstairs was awake.

Heavy footsteps came from the hallway outside my door.

Step by step, they descended the stairs and stopped right at my door.

Knock, knock, knock.

The knocking started.

"Open up, Ms. Moreno." Scott's voice came from the other side of the security door. "My meat grinder's busted. Mind if I borrow your kitchen knife?"

I pressed myself against the door, deliberately making my breath long and shallow.

Scott lingered outside the door.

I could sense him pressing his face right up to the peephole, trying to peer inside, searching for any sign of movement.

Outside the peephole was nothing but dead darkness, because I'd sealed the peephole with black tape.

"Ms. Moreno?" he called out again, his tone turning eerily calm and cold. "You must be a really heavy sleeper, huh?"

Chapter 1

I got up for some water when my phone suddenly buzzed.

A new message popped up in the usually dead group chat, "Happy Homes."

The message read: [Guys, sorry. I've got about 100 pounds of meat at home that I forgot to put in the fridge, and it's gone bad.

[It stinks pretty bad. Will it block the pipes if I chop them up and dump them down the drain?]

The time stamp read 3:14 AM.

My hand stopped halfway to my mouth, glass in hand. A cold shiver shot up from my feet right to my head.

It was August, Fritzburg's hottest season. I wondered who would keep 100 pounds of meat at home and let it rot.

*****

The group chat was dead silent. At this hour, most people were sound asleep.

After about two minutes, the grumpy old man from Room 502, who was always up at night, sent a voice message, his tone muffled and angry.

He shouted, [What are you doing at this hour? 100 pounds? Did you buy a whole pig or something?

[If it stinks, take it to the trash. Why dump it down the drain? If you clog the pipes, the people downstairs will come after you!]

Scott Reese replied instantly, just two words: [Too heavy.]

Then he added, [And there's blood. I'm worried it'll stain the elevator and someone will complain.]

I set down my glass, holding my breath, my gaze unconsciously drawn to the ceiling.

I lived in Room 304, and Scott was right above me.

This old apartment building had terrible soundproofing.

In the unnervingly silent night, I could faintly hear something moving upstairs.

It wasn't normal footsteps. It was a dull, sticky, dragging noise.

Scrape, scrape, thud.

It sounded like a heavy, sloshy sack being slowly dragged across the tile floor, inch by inch, toward the bathroom.

My heart started pounding.

That number of 100 pounds stuck in my head like a splinter.

I'd met Scott before. He was in his thirties, a burly guy with a rough face and a hostile glare.

His wife, Melody Reese, was skinny and soft, always keeping her head down and barely speaking above a whisper.

Melody shrank into the corner, and to humiliate her even more, Scott called out her weight. "For someone your size, only 100 pounds! Even a pig would fatten up better than you!"

The dragging noise from upstairs suddenly stopped.

Then came a sudden gush of water. Someone was running water in the bathtub.

A few seconds later, an even creepier sound echoed through the silence.

It sounded like a chainsaw buzzing. But it was too loud for that.

It sounded like a handheld saw, or maybe... a blender spinning empty, then suddenly hitting something solid.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

That was the chilling crack of metal blades breaking bone.

My stomach churned violently.

Out of nowhere, Scott sent another message to the group chat.

This time, it was a photo.

The bathroom was dimly lit, bathed in a sickly yellow glow.

A few oversized black trash bags were piled on the floor, their tops knotted tight, but people could still make out a puddle of dark red liquid oozing from underneath.

The caption read: [Sorry, the stench is pretty intense. I'll try to mask it with some toilet cleaner.]

I stared at the photo, unable to tear my eyes away.

At the very edge of the image, wedged between the trash bags, something seemed to be peeking out.

If people weren't paying close attention, they'd probably mistake it for a chunk of meat.

I pinched the screen to zoom in for a better look.

It was a fingernail.

It was painted with red nail polish and had a cheap rhinestone glued on top.

I recognized the nail.

Yesterday afternoon, when I was picking up my package, Melody was in front of me. As she signed for hers, I saw those same red nails with a rhinestone.

The noise from upstairs suddenly stopped.

The world went dead silent.

Just as I was hesitating about calling the cops, a heavy thud sounded right above my head.

Then my phone buzzed.

It wasn't from the group chat. It was a private message.

It was sent from Scott in Room 404.

It read: [Ms. Moreno, are you still awake? I think I just heard your chair move.]

I felt my blood freeze all at once.

I didn't move my chair.

I didn't even dare to breathe.

He was probing. He was checking to see if anyone downstairs was awake.

Heavy footsteps came from the hallway outside my door.

Step by step, they descended the stairs and stopped right at my door.

Knock, knock, knock.

The knocking started.

"Open up, Ms. Moreno." Scott's voice came from the other side of the security door. "My meat grinder's busted. Mind if I borrow your kitchen knife?"

I pressed myself against the door, deliberately making my breath long and shallow.

Scott lingered outside the door.

I could sense him pressing his face right up to the peephole, trying to peer inside, searching for any sign of movement.

Outside the peephole was nothing but dead darkness, because I'd sealed the peephole with black tape.

"Ms. Moreno?" he called out again, his tone turning eerily calm and cold. "You must be a really heavy sleeper, huh?"