I didn't plan to go out that night. I really didn't. After everything happening in the building—the knocking, the whispers, the footsteps—I should've locked my door, shut my curtains, and stayed inside like a normal person.
But lying in bed made everything worse. My thoughts kept pacing faster than the figure I heard in the stairwell. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined someone standing over me, watching, waiting.
Around 11:40 p.m., I threw off the blankets and sat up.
"I just need some air," I whispered to myself, pretending that was the whole truth.
Maybe I thought walking would clear my mind. Maybe I thought I could outrun the fear in my chest. Or maybe, deep down, I wanted to see something. Find something. Confirm what my instincts kept telling me.
That the killer wasn't behind bars.
And the danger wasn't over.
I put on my jacket and left quietly.
The streets were almost empty. A dim yellow glow from the streetlights pressed against the cold air. The town felt colder at night lately—like the air picked up fear and held onto it.
I kept my hood up and my hands in my pockets, trying to look casual. Not suspicious. Just a guy taking a walk. People do that, right? Midnight walks aren't weird. Some people can't sleep. Some people like the peace and quiet.
That's what I told myself.
I kept to the sidewalks, avoiding windows where my reflection looked too jumpy and nervous. Every sound echoed in my head—the crunch of gravel, the buzz of a lamp, the soft hum of the bakery's refrigerator.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing dangerous.
But I still kept looking over my shoulder.
When I turned onto Oakridge Lane, the road felt heavier under my feet. It was darker here. Fewer houses, and most of the streetlights didn't work properly. I told myself I'd just walk up to the corner and turn back.
Just a few minutes. Enough to breathe.
But then I heard it.
A faint click.
Like a door shutting in the distance.
I froze.
The sound wasn't near me. It came from deeper down the road, near the old bookshop that always smelled like mold and memories.
"Probably just someone closing up," I whispered.
But no one closed up at this hour. The shop shut at seven, always.
I should've turned around.
I should've gone home.
I should've forgotten the sound completely.
Instead, I kept walking.
Not faster.
Not slower.
Just steady.
My heart beat too loudly, thumping against my ribs like it wanted out. But my feet kept moving, carrying me toward the noise.
When I reached the corner by the bookshop, the door was slightly open. A thin crack of darkness showed through. My breath caught. I leaned forward a little, trying to see inside.
Nothing.
Just pitch-black.
I stepped back, shaking off the uneasy feeling crawling up my spine.
"Go home," I told myself again.
I actually listened this time. I turned around and started walking back the way I came.
But I only made it halfway down the street before I heard something else.
A scream.
Not a long, dramatic one. Not the kind movies exaggerate. This was short. Sharp. Cut off halfway like the person didn't get the chance to finish it.
Every nerve in my body fired at once.
My whole chest clenched.
I spun around, heart pounding, scanning every shadow, every doorway. The scream had come from the alley behind the bookshop. The same alley where trash bins lined the wall and old crates sat untouched for years.
I took one step toward it, then stopped.
Don't go, my mind whispered.
Go home. Go home now.
But another part of me—stronger, darker—pushed forward.
What if it wasn't what I thought?
What if someone needed help?
What if I could see something the police missed?
I moved closer, each step slow enough to feel the gravel shift beneath my shoes. The alley entrance was too dark to see clearly, so I stood just outside it, staring into the black void.
"Hello?" I called softly.
No answer.
The wind picked up, brushing cold air past my ears, making the alley whisper like it was speaking in a language I couldn't understand.
I told myself I'd just look for a second. One glance. One moment. Then leave.
I leaned in slightly.
And saw nothing.
No body.
No figure.
No killer.
Just darkness and stale air.
"Maybe I imagined it," I said under my breath. "I'm overtired. That's all."
But I didn't believe myself.
I stayed there for another few seconds, listening for anything—footsteps, breathing, movement. Nothing came.
After one last glance, I turned and hurried away, walking quicker than before. My legs felt weak, but I pushed myself until the alley disappeared behind me.
It wasn't until I reached the next block that I realized my hands were shaking uncontrollably.
I hurried home, constantly checking the shadows behind me. Every porch light looked like an eye. Every corner felt too dark. Even the rustle of a leaf made me flinch.
I ran the last two streets.
By the time I reached my building, my breath was uneven, and sweat clung to my neck. I unlocked my door, slipped inside, and shut it quickly, pressing my back against the wood.
Safe.
Inside.
Away from whatever—or whoever—I heard.
But my heart didn't calm.
I went straight to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. The guy staring back at me in the mirror looked terrified. Pale. Trembling.
"What are you doing?" I whispered. "Why did you go out there?"
I didn't answer myself. I didn't have an answer.
I walked to the window and looked outside. The street was calm again. Empty. Quiet. Like nothing had happened at all. Like the scream had been swallowed by the night.
But I knew better.
Something happened.
Something real.
Something close.
I moved back to the center of the room and sat on the floor, knees pulled up, trying to breathe slowly.
That's when I thought of her.
Eliza.
My neighbor across the hall.
Friendly, but too quiet.
Helpful, but always watching.
Soft smile, but eyes that studied everything.
She was awake last night when the whispers traveled through the building. I knew she was—the light under her door moved for hours. And she always walked so silently I barely heard her. Like she was afraid the floor might betray her.
Or like she didn't want anyone to know where she was.
For the first time, the thought didn't feel ridiculous.
I replayed the scream in my head. The door clicking. The darkness in the alley. The way Eliza always seemed to appear without making a sound.
Could she have followed me?
Could she have been in the alley?
Could she have been watching?
My stomach tightened.
No.
That was crazy.
She was just a neighbor. A bit odd, but harmless.
Still… the timing felt wrong. Too perfect. Too close.
I stood and paced the room, trying to calm down. But no matter how many times I told myself I was being dramatic, the suspicion dug its claws deeper.
What if Eliza wasn't what she seemed?
What if she was the reason I heard whispers behind the walls?
What if she was awake every night, moving silently in the halls?
What if she followed me tonight?
I clenched my jaw.
The police were wrong about Ethan. Anyone could see that. And if the killer wasn't him…
My mind settled on Eliza again.
Her quiet steps.
Her late-night movements.
Her door opening when mine opened, like she was listening.
I swallowed hard.
"Eliza…" I whispered.
Her name felt heavier than it should.
I didn't want to suspect her. I really didn't. But after the scream tonight, after the alley—after everything—I couldn't shake the image of her standing in the darkness, watching me walk away, letting the town blame the wrong man.
And for the first time in days, I felt something colder and sharper than fear.
Certainty.
Ethan wasn't the killer.
I knew it.
And now I knew something else:
someone close to me was hiding something.
Maybe it was Eliza.
Maybe it was someone else.
But someone in this town wasn't who they pretended to be.
And after tonight, I realized something terrifying:
Whoever the killer was…
they weren't far.
They were close.
Too close.