By the end of the week, Blue Ridge didn't feel like a town anymore. It felt like a glass cage, and everyone inside kept waiting for the next crack to appear.
Nobody trusted anyone.
And I mean no one.
You could see it in the grocery store, where strangers suddenly refused to make eye contact. You could hear it at the diner, where gossip had become the only form of conversation. Even laughter sounded nervous, like people were afraid it might attract attention.
Everyone wanted to feel safe again.
But when a killer walks unseen, safety becomes make-believe.
I tried pretending like the rest. I went to work, smiled when I needed to, asked people about their day. But every face I saw had the same haunted edge. Everyone was acting off.
And the more I looked, the more I noticed things that didn't fit.
It started with Darren, the guy from accounting. Normally cheerful, always humming or telling dumb jokes. Lately, though, he'd been quieter — showing up late, locking his desk drawers, jumping every time someone spoke behind him.
Yesterday I walked past his cubicle and caught him staring at a true crime article on his computer. He minimized it fast when he saw me.
"Researching?" I teased lightly.
He smiled without looking up. "Just reading."
Something about his tone made me pause. His shoulders were tense, his knuckles white against the mouse.
When I asked if he was okay, he just muttered, "Can't sleep much lately."
None of us could. But it didn't stop my brain from filing his name under possible.
Then there was Eliza, my upstairs neighbor.
She'd always been friendly — the kind who bakes cookies for the building and overwaters her plants. But after the second murder, she changed too.
I started hearing footsteps above my ceiling late at night, long after midnight. Slow, deliberate steps that went from one side of the room to the other.
Once, I even thought I heard something being dragged.
I told myself it was nothing — furniture, maybe — but the noise pattern never matched that excuse. When I asked her casually one morning if she'd been rearranging things at night, she froze.
Her hand tightened around her coffee mug.
"Oh… that. Just insomnia," she said too quickly. "Sorry if it's loud."
Her eyes darted away before I could ask anything else.
Insomnia doesn't sound like dragging. I added her to the mental list too.
And then there was Tyler, my best friend.
We'd known each other since school, and he was the one person I trusted — or thought I did. But lately, even that felt shaky.
He'd started making weird jokes about the killings. Not cruel, just… detached. Like he thought humor could erase fear.
One night he texted me:
"At least the killer's got good timing. Keeps things exciting."
Exciting? What kind of word was that for this?
When I asked if he was serious, he sent back a laughing emoji and changed the subject.
But something about that message sat wrong. Too casual. Too fearless. Almost… proud?
Could he be trying to sound normal while hiding something worse?
By now, the rumors had gotten out of control. The news stopped calling it an "isolated incident." They didn't even bother saying suspect unknown anymore — just no progress made.
In small towns, silence feeds imagination.
And imagination was killing Blue Ridge faster than the murderer.
Mrs. Hill from the bakery swore she saw someone burying something behind the church.
A teenager claimed a man offered her a ride home and kept smiling too wide.
Two coworkers said the janitor at City Hall had scratches on his arm.
And the internet only made it worse — everyone analyzing everyone else.
They even created an online thread: #BlueRidgeWatcher
Anonymous users posted theories every hour:
"Killer's definitely male. Maybe a loner. Someone obsessed with control."
"Could be female too — women can be methodical."
"Maybe it's one of the cops."
"Maybe it's someone pretending to help."
That last one hit harder than I wanted to admit.
At night, the rumors followed me home.
The quiet of my apartment felt heavier with every headline, every whisper, every creak in the walls.
Sometimes I caught myself standing at the window again, watching other windows. People used to leave their curtains open — now, they all stayed shut tight.
No light.
No faces.
Just a town hiding from itself.
And still, I couldn't stop looking.
Last night I saw Darren — the coworker — walking down the street at midnight. He didn't see me watching from above. He was wearing a hood, hands stuffed in his jacket, head low. He turned the corner toward Maple Avenue — the same direction where both murders had happened.
Coincidence?
Maybe.
But maybe not.
I almost called Rowan then. Almost.
But what would I say? "Hey, I saw my coworker walking at night"?
That's not evidence — that's paranoia.
Still, it felt too specific to ignore.
The next morning, I found a small envelope slipped under my door. No return address.
My name typed neatly across the front.
Inside was a folded note:
"You're watching too closely."
That's it. No signature. No handwriting — typed like a ransom note.
My stomach dropped. I stared at it for a long time, the words blurring.
Someone knew.
Someone had seen me looking out my window, paying attention, connecting dots.
Someone didn't like that.
I grabbed the envelope, ran downstairs, and checked the hallway — empty. Checked the mail slots — nothing new. The air felt stale, the building too still.
Eliza's door upstairs creaked, then closed softly.
Was it her?
Was she warning me?
I went back into my apartment, locked the door, and sat against it for ten minutes just listening.
Silence again. Too much silence.
I tried showing the note to Rowan later, but when I got to the station, he wasn't there. Another officer, a younger guy named Mason, stood in for him.
When I explained what happened, Mason smiled tightly. "We'll note it down."
"That's it?" I asked. "You don't want to take it for prints?"
He hesitated, glancing around. "Look… everyone's reporting weird stuff now. Threats, noises, notes, shadows. If we chased every one, we'd never sleep."
"But this one was real," I insisted.
He nodded politely. "They all are."
Translation: Go home. You're overreacting.
I left angry. Frustrated. Alone again.
That night, I didn't sleep at all.
Every sound felt personal — footsteps outside, pipes creaking, a car starting too close to my window.
At one point, I saw a shadow move under the streetlight. Just for a second. A tall shape that stopped, looked up toward my window, and then kept walking.
My chest tightened. My throat dried.
It had to be the killer. Who else would walk this late, this slow?
I stayed by the window until the street went empty again.
Morning sunlight didn't calm me anymore. I walked to work jittery, scanning faces. Every handshake, every "good morning," sounded like a lie.
When Darren smiled at me by the coffee machine, I smiled back, pretending not to notice how his eyes darted to my neck and back again.
When Eliza passed me in the stairwell, she held a grocery bag a little too tightly — heavy for something that small. When Tyler texted, "You still thinking about that window thing?", I almost blocked him.
Everyone was suspicious now. Every habit, every expression had hidden meaning.
The town had turned into a chessboard, and everyone was playing defense without knowing who the opponent was.
In the afternoon, Detective Rowan finally called me in.
He looked exhausted. He didn't even sit behind his desk this time — just leaned against it.
"Another murder?" I asked.
He nodded. "We found a third body."
My chest went cold. "When?"
"Early morning. West side. We're not releasing details yet."
"Was it—"
He stopped me with a look. "Don't ask."
The silence stretched between us.
Finally, I asked, "Do you have suspects?"
He sighed. "At this point, everyone's a suspect."
I almost laughed at that. "You're telling me."
He tilted his head slightly. "Meaning?"
"Meaning everyone's acting strange," I said quickly. "Neighbors, coworkers. Even friends. No one's normal anymore."
Rowan studied me again with that same unreadable stare. "Including you?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Fear makes people behave oddly," he said. "Sometimes even the innocent start thinking like the guilty."
I swallowed hard. "I'm not—"
"I didn't say you were," he interrupted calmly. "Just… be careful not to let suspicion consume you."
Consume me? Too late.
He dismissed me soon after, but his words followed me out the door like a curse.
By the time I got home, it was raining — thin and cold. The kind that sticks to your clothes and doesn't stop.
I climbed the stairs slowly, scanning the hallway again. My front door looked normal — no more notes, no scratches, no sign of entry. Still, I hesitated before touching the handle.
From upstairs came faint movement again. Eliza's apartment. That dragging sound.
I froze mid-step, holding my breath. The noise went on for several seconds, then stopped. I waited another minute, but nothing followed.
Maybe she was just cleaning. Maybe I was losing it.
I unlocked my door and stepped inside. The apartment smelled faintly like paper — that note still sitting on the counter. You're watching too closely.
I poured a glass of water and sat by the window again.
Outside, Blue Ridge looked smaller. Streets glistening wet, lamps flickering, people moving quickly, heads down. Trying not to see what might be standing beside them.
And me?
I kept looking anyway.
Because someone had to.
If everyone's a suspect, then maybe the only person you can trust—
is the one who already knows how guilty everyone really is.