I didn't sleep much after the day Ethan was arrested. Not because I felt unsafe, exactly, but because the whole thing felt wrong. The town was celebrating while something inside me kept tightening, like a rope being pulled from both ends. Every time I thought I might drift off, another thought jabbed me awake.
What if the killer was still out there?
I must have checked my lock five times before finally lying down. I even put a chair under the doorknob, which was ridiculous, but it made me feel better. For a moment.
The building was quiet when I shut my eyes. That kind of quiet that feels too perfect, like it's trying to convince you there's nothing to worry about.
But then the knocking started.
A single tap.
Not loud. Not aggressive. Just… there.
I sat up immediately, heart pushing against my ribs.
At first I told myself it was the pipes. Old buildings make noises. They pop and shift, and sometimes it really does sound like someone knocking. That's what I wanted to believe. That's what any normal person would believe.
But the sound came again.
Tap.
Pause.
Tap-tap.
It wasn't random. It had a rhythm.
Like someone testing something.
Or signaling.
I got up slowly, crossing the room on quiet steps like I didn't want to disturb whoever—or whatever—was on the other side. I pressed my ear against the wall, trying to focus.
Whispers.
Soft, almost too soft to separate from the hum of the building. But they were there. Two voices, maybe three. Not arguing. Not laughing. Just… whispering. Fast. Secretive.
I stepped back, balancing on the edge of panic.
Who whispers at three in the morning?
Neighbors?
Strangers?
Someone in the hall?
Or maybe someone who didn't want to be heard.
I turned off the fan so the room was completely silent. The knocks were clearer now. The whispers sharper, like they were sliding down the walls with purpose.
"This is stupid," I told myself, rubbing my arms to shake off the chill.
But stupid or not, I was listening.
The knocks moved.
Not from the wall.
From the ceiling.
A scrape.
Then a thump.
Then another series of taps like fingers drumming lightly just above my head.
My breath hitched. I looked up even though I couldn't see anything through the ceiling. My mind filled in the image anyway—someone crawling in the attic, dragging their hand across the wood, peeking through tiny cracks, watching.
I backed away.
Fast.
I didn't want to be in my room anymore. I didn't want to be under whatever was above me. So I grabbed my shoes and stepped into the hallway, trying to breathe normal again.
The hall was dim. Only one light worked at night, the rest flickered when they felt like it. The air smelled like dust and stale laundry detergent. I checked each door as I passed, listening for the whispers.
Nothing.
Everything looked normal.
I should have gone back inside. But something made me walk toward the end of the hall. Maybe curiosity, or dread, or that feeling you get when you know you shouldn't look at something but can't stop yourself.
When I reached the stairwell, I heard footsteps from below. Soft, slow, deliberate. They weren't coming up. They were pacing. Back and forth on the landing under me.
Someone was awake.
Someone was listening too.
I held my breath and leaned just far enough to look down the staircase. The floor below was mostly dark. But every time the pacing figure passed under the weak light, I saw a shape. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes. Head slightly lowered.
I froze. My fingers curled around the railing so tightly it hurt.
I didn't know who it was.
I didn't want to know.
They stopped suddenly, like they sensed me.
I ducked behind the wall before they could look up, heart racing so fast I thought they might hear it.
"Okay… go back…" I whispered to myself. "Just go back upstairs."
But before I could move, there was another sound—this time from the far end of my hallway.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Even.
Approaching.
I spun around.
A shadow stretched across the floor, long and thin, cast by the flickering hallway light. Someone was walking toward my apartment from the far corner. Their pace wasn't rushed. It was steady, patient. Like they knew exactly where they were going.
I didn't wait to see their face.
I darted back into my apartment, slammed the door, locked it, and shoved the chair back under the knob. My hands shook so hard I struggled to turn the deadbolt.
The knocking didn't start again.
The whispers stopped.
The hallway footsteps faded.
But I stayed awake until sunrise.
When morning finally came, I felt like I'd aged ten years overnight. My eyes burned. My head felt heavy. Every sound made me jump. Even boiling water for tea felt loud.
I kept thinking about the person in the stairwell.
And the shadow coming down the hall.
And the ceiling noises.
And those whispers that crawled across the walls.
I told myself I imagined half of it. Lack of sleep does that to people. Fear twists normal sounds into strange ones. But deep down? I knew I wasn't imagining everything.
Someone was awake in this building long after everyone else slept.
Someone was moving around with purpose.
Someone was whispering behind walls like they were plotting something.
I kept the TV on all morning just to fill the silence. The news kept replaying the same headline:
ETHAN ROWLEY TO BE HELD FOR FURTHER QUESTIONING
They sounded confident. Too confident. The anchor spoke as if the case was already wrapped up with a perfect bow. Like nothing else mattered.
No mention of the whispers.
No mention of footsteps.
No mention of shadows in my hallway.
Maybe I was the only one noticing anything at all.
I tried to distract myself by cleaning, but it didn't help. Everything made me think of last night. The sound of the vacuum reminded me of scraping. The broom tapping the baseboards felt like the same knocks I heard behind the wall.
By noon, I gave up pretending I could focus.
Someone was in my building last night.
Someone who shouldn't have been there.
And the more I thought about it, the more certain I became:
If Ethan was locked up, then whoever was whispering…
whoever was knocking…
whoever was pacing the stairs…
wasn't him.
Which meant the real killer was still free.
Around evening, I heard another noise. This time it wasn't whispers or taps. It was something else. Something worse.
A slow, dragging sound in the hallway.
Like someone walking with heavy boots.
Or pulling something behind them.
The hairs on my arms stood up. I turned off the TV and listened carefully.
The steps stopped right outside my door.
I held my breath.
Silence.
Then—
A soft, drawn-out exhale.
Too close.
Too real.
Someone was standing on the other side of the wood, breathing like they could feel me through it. My palms went sweaty around my phone. I didn't know if I should call the police or stay frozen. Calling might make noise. Staying quiet might give them time.
I stood so still my legs started shaking.
After a few long seconds, the breathing faded. The heavy footsteps continued to the end of the hall. A door creaked open. Then closed.
I didn't move until ten minutes had passed. Maybe fifteen. It felt like an hour.
Whoever it was, they lived here.
Or pretended to.
Either way, someone in this building wasn't who they claimed to be.
The fear didn't leave me that night. I kept replaying everything in my head. The whispers. The pacing. The shadow. The knock. Each detail fit together too neatly, like pieces of a puzzle pointing to something I didn't want to see.
The police thought Ethan was the killer.
The town thought everything was over.
But I knew better.
When I finally sat at my desk, staring at the blank notebook where I'd been keeping my thoughts, one truth pressed harder than anything else:
Someone is watching.
Someone is listening.
And someone is waiting.
I wrote those words down so I wouldn't forget.
I'm not sure why I needed to.
Maybe writing it made it feel real.
Maybe it made me feel less alone.
Or maybe…
maybe I wanted someone to find these notes someday.
I don't know.
But I do know this:
If the killer had really been caught,
my building wouldn't whisper at night.
And shadows wouldn't follow me in the hall.
Someone else is out there.
And they haven't stopped.
Not yet.