Chapter 1
It was two in the morning when my husband, David Harper, suddenly shook me awake. He pressed a finger to his lips, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't make a sound. Someone's getting murdered next door. I heard something weird."
His face was pale, and his forehead was covered in cold sweat.
I was about to tell him he was being paranoid when I heard a dull thud from the other side of the wall, followed by the sound of something being dragged across the floor.
We didn't bother with shoes. Grabbing our phones, we bolted out the door.
Too scared to take the elevator, we ran down all seventeen floors and hid in a small motel on the corner.
The next morning, my phone was blowing up with news alerts. [Late last night, a major murder occurred on the 17th floor of an apartment complex. Four households, eleven people were killed. Only one family made it out alive.]
The photo was of our floor.
I felt ice crawl over my skin as I turned to David. "What exactly did you hear that night?"
David stayed quiet for a long moment, then said, "The sounds I heard weren't coming from next door. They were coming from our living room."
*****
At two in the morning, my husband, David Harper, suddenly shook me awake. He pressed a finger to his lips, making a shh gesture.
His voice was barely audible, squeezed out from deep in his throat. "Riley, don't make a sound. Someone's getting murdered next door. I heard some strange noises."
His face was as pale as a sheet, his forehead drenched in cold sweat, and his pajamas soaked through, clinging tightly to his body.
I was about to tell him maybe he was overworked and seeing things.
But then, from the other side of the wall, came a dull, heavy thud. It sounded like someone had slammed a watermelon hard against the floor.
Right after, I heard something being dragged roughly across the floor.
In the dead silence of the night, the noise was magnified a hundred times, as if someone was scraping sandpaper against my eardrums.
My heart was suddenly squeezed tight by an invisible hand.
David was shaking hard. The next second, he grabbed my hand, his grip frighteningly strong. "Let's go now."
We didn't even have time to put on our shoes or change out of our pajamas.
David grabbed both our phones from the nightstand and pressed them into my hands, then pulled me running outside.
He opened the door as quietly as possible, then closed it as carefully behind us. Not a single extra sound was made the entire time, not even enough to trigger the voice-activated lights in the hallway.
It was dead silent. A faint, sweet, bloody scent lingered in the air.
I didn't dare take a deep breath. David pulled me along, crouched low and hugging the wall, creeping step by step toward the elevator. His palm was drenched in sweat, damp and sticky.
The elevator display showed 17, which was our floor.
David glanced at it and quickly shook his head. He pointed to the stairwell, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.
The sound of the elevator doors opening might wake up whatever was lurking out there.
We pushed open the heavy fire door and dove headfirst into the pitch-black stairwell.
We tore down all seventeen flights without stopping once.
Our lungs were on fire, the rough concrete burned our bare feet with every step, but we couldn't stop, not for a second.
We rushed out of the building, and the cold night air jolted me back to reality.
The entire complex was empty in the dead of night, with only the streetlamps casting a dim yellow glow, stretching our shadows long and thin.
We ran all the way, terrified and on edge. In the end, we scrambled into a 24-hour motel on the corner.
The girl at the front desk eyed us up and down, suspicion written all over her face.
A man and a woman in pajamas, barefoot, looking panicked and completely out of place.
David used my phone to pay and booked us a room. He didn't say a single word the whole time and kept a vice-like grip on my wrist.
As soon as we got inside, he locked the door right away. Then he barricaded it with a chair, wedging it tight under the handle.
After that, he collapsed onto the floor, as he'd melted into a puddle, panting hard and gulping air as if he'd nearly drowned.
I slumped down against the wall beside him. My legs were still shaking uncontrollably.
We stared at each other, looking totally wrecked, and neither of us could say a thing.
We sat there, waiting, until the first light crept in through the window.
Suddenly, my phone started buzzing nonstop. It was news alerts.
I tapped on one. The headline was chilling. [Late last night, a major murder occurred on the 17th floor of an apartment complex. Four households, eleven people were killed. Only one family made it out alive.]
The accompanying photo showed our apartment building. Four households, eleven people were killed.
There were five families living on our floor in total. Everyone but us was gone.
I felt like all the blood vanished from my veins, and my limbs went ice-cold.
I showed David the screen on my phone. His eyes went wide, pupils contracting in shock. His lips quivered, but he was speechless. We were the only ones left alive.
I stared at him fiercely, trying desperately to read something off his pale face.
I rasped, my voice dry and hoarse, "That night, what exactly did you hear?"
He wouldn't meet my eyes, silent for what felt like forever, long enough that I started to think he'd never answer.
He finally broke the silence, his voice barely more than a breath. "The sounds I heard weren't coming from next door. They were coming from our living room."