It started as a dull, uneven thud that blended into the usual sounds of an old building, the kind you try to ignore because acknowledging it means losing sleep. I remember turning over, pulling the blanket tighter, telling myself it was just pipes or someone dropping something. But when it came again—louder this time, followed by a sharp crash that echoed unnaturally through the walls—I knew it wasn’t nothing. There was something wrong with the rhythm of it, something human. By the time I heard what sounded like a muffled cry, low and strained like it was being forced through clenched teeth, I was already sitting upright, heart racing faster than it should at three in the morning.
I grabbed my phone and stepped into the hallway, the cold air outside my apartment making everything feel more real. The overhead light flickered, casting shadows that stretched and snapped back with every step I took toward his door—Apartment 3B. I had noticed things before, late-night noises, movements at odd hours, but I had chosen not to get involved. It was easier that way. Safer. But standing there now, with another heavy thud vibrating through the door, that distance felt like cowardice.
