### A security guard in our apartment complex was killed by a falling object. No one admitted to it, and there were no security cameras to catch what happened. No one had an alibi. Then, the guard’s son, holding an axe, stormed into the building. “Tell me,” he demanded, “who do you think the murderer is?” The finger-pointing began. And with it, the nightmare. It was Sunday, and I didn’t wake up until 2 p.m. That’s the life of someone caught in the grind of a relentless job—working 9 to 9, six days a week. Your only day off is mostly spent catching up on sleep, and even then, you never feel rested. Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffled to the door in my slippers to grab the packages I’d been meaning to bring inside. Halfway through sorting the boxes, a deafening thud echoed through the building. Then came the screams. I froze in place, a terrible feeling settling in my chest. Something must’ve happened… something bad. Whatever drowsiness I had left was gone in an instant. I ran to the balcony and looked down. The security guard, Mr. Miller, lay motionless on the ground, his head bloody. Beside him was a shattered flowerpot. A crowd had gathered around his body, pointing and shouting, many glancing nervously upward.
Mr. Miller was dead—killed instantly by the falling flowerpot. When the paramedics arrived, they took one look at him, covered his body with a sheet, and left. The police sealed off the area. Someone in the apartment’s group chat shared a video. I clicked on it. In the video, Mr. Miller’s lifeless eyes stared blankly into the camera. The person filming sighed heavily. “It’s such a tragedy. Just like that, he’s gone. I was just talking to him earlier, you know?” “And that flowerpot… God, imagine if it had hit a kid instead.” The video was unsettling, and it didn’t take long for the building manager to delete it. But not before the accusations started flying. Someone in the group chat claimed the flowerpot had fallen from Building D, calling out its residents as potential murderers: “I suggest the guilty party turn themselves in. Otherwise, everyone in Building D is a suspect—and a murderer.” The comment lit a fire in the group chat. D602 | Clara Jones: “Find the person who did it! Don’t lump us all together—I’ve done nothing wrong and have nothing to hide.” D701 | Eric Howard: “I just bought this place, and now someone’s dead outside my building? I should be the one complaining about bad luck!” D502 | Mark Stone: “Relax. With all the cameras around, they’ll figure out who did it soon enough.” The chat devolved into chaos. I turned off my phone and looked at the officer standing outside my door. “Officer, have you caught the person responsible yet?” I asked nervously. He gave me a hard look. “As long as everyone cooperates, we’ll find the killer.” I nodded, still shaken. “I’m scared to even step outside. What if something falls on my head next?” The officer jotted something down in his notebook, then asked, “Miss Carter, can you tell me where you were between 2:00 and 2:30 p.m. today?” That was when Mr. Miller had been killed. It wasn’t hard to recall. “I woke up around 2:00, had some water, and started unpacking the packages by my door. I was still in the middle of it when I heard the noise around 2:30.” “What kind of packages?” I gestured to the corner of my room, where a mountain of boxes sat. “I’m a beauty blogger. Most of these are PR packages from brands, plus some things I ordered for myself.” The officer glanced at the pile, clearly surprised, and scribbled something down. “Did you hear anything unusual during that time?” he asked. I thought for a moment. “Actually… I think I heard the couple on the seventh floor arguing.”
After the officer left, the couple from the seventh floor exploded in the group chat. D701 | Eric Howard: “Who the hell has such a big mouth?” D701 | Jessica Howard: “My husband and I are perfectly happy together. Whoever’s spreading rumors should stop before I sue for defamation!” D701 | Eric Howard: “If I find out who’s been running their mouth, you’re dead meat!” The chat went silent. No one dared to respond. I ignored the drama and went back to unpacking the rest of my packages. By the time I was done, it was already dark. I stuffed some of the empty boxes into a large trash bag and decided to take them downstairs to the recycling bins. At the door, I bent down to put on my shoes. Out of habit, I glanced through the peephole. My heart stopped. Someone was standing on the other side of the door, staring directly into the peephole.
Who was it? Who was outside my door? I froze, my body rigid with fear. Thank God peepholes only work one way. As long as I didn’t make a sound, whoever it was wouldn’t know I was inside. I don’t know how long I stood there, holding my breath. Finally, the person moved. The sound of faint footsteps faded as they walked away. I collapsed against the wall, my legs weak. My back was soaked with sweat. I didn’t dare leave my apartment to take out the trash. Instead, I bolted into my bedroom and locked the door behind me. If I hadn’t checked the peephole, if I had just opened the door without thinking… I didn’t want to imagine what might’ve happened. The terror of that moment stayed with me, haunting me far more than Mr. Miller’s death had. That night, I dreamed of nothing but the eye staring back at me through the peephole. The next morning, after making sure no one was outside, I left the apartment complex and bought a discreet security camera. By the end of the day, I had it installed near my door, hidden from plain sight. If that person ever came back, I would catch them. And this time, they would pay.
Almost a week had passed, and the figure outside my peephole hadn’t appeared again. Today was Saturday, the last day of my soul-crushing 9-to-9 work week. Life seemed to have returned to normal—for the most part. The only noticeable change was the replacement of the security guard. Other than that, everything felt the same. After finishing my work, I went home, took a long, relaxing shower, and settled into my couch with a face mask while binge-watching a series. That’s when the sound of a power drill suddenly echoed from downstairs. It was loud, jarring, and completely out of place in the otherwise quiet night. I glanced at the clock. It was already 10 p.m. What the hell? Who starts drilling this late at night? I checked the apartment group chat. Sure enough, everyone in Building D was losing it. D502 | Mark Stone: “Who the hell is remodeling this late on a weekend?!” D602 | Clara Jones: “Drilling at this hour? Are you kidding me? Some of us are trying to sleep!” D701 | Eric Howard: “Whoever’s doing this, I swear I’ll kill you!” D502 | Mark Stone: @D701 Eric Howard “You go ahead, Eric. You’ve got my full support.” Eric didn’t reply after that. Our building was part of a high-end complex, with only two apartments per floor and plenty of space between each building. The noise was clearly coming from our building—only we could hear it. Meanwhile, the other buildings in the group chat were having a great time mocking our misery. Eventually, a girl from the fourth floor spoke up. She volunteered to find out who was doing the drilling, saying we wouldn’t get any peace unless someone stepped in. Everyone agreed, relieved they didn’t have to deal with it themselves. Ten minutes later, the drilling finally stopped. D502 | Mark Stone: @FourthFloorGirl “Thanks for handling that!” But she didn’t respond. I hesitated for a moment before typing a quick “thank you” message myself. It didn’t go through. I checked my phone and realized there was no signal. “No service?” I muttered. Weird. I tried switching to Wi-Fi. As soon as it connected, the lights in my apartment went out. Everything went pitch black.
No signal. No lights. The timing was too perfect to be a coincidence. A wave of unease washed over me. I walked to the window and peeked outside. The other buildings in the complex were all still lit up. Only Building D was shrouded in complete darkness. Something wasn’t right. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and lit a candle for extra light. It’s nothing. I told myself. Probably just a tripped circuit. The new security guard will notice and fix it soon. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. To distract myself, I opened my laptop. There was still enough battery left, so I decided to edit a video I’d filmed earlier this week. Making beauty content was just a side gig for me—something I did for fun on my days off. Somehow, I’d managed to grow a decent following of a few tens of thousands of followers. Brands had even started sending me products to review. I clicked on the file to start editing when a sharp, muffled scream cut through the silence. It was short—almost too short—but it sent chills down my spine. I froze, straining my ears to listen. Silence. An eerie, suffocating silence. Even the usual chirping of birds outside had disappeared. My hands started to tremble as my mind raced. I thought of Mr. Miller, the security guard who’d been killed the previous Sunday. Today was Saturday. At midnight, it would be the seventh night—the Seventh Night, the night when spirits were said to return.
It was 10:22 p.m. Not quite midnight yet. I couldn’t stay here any longer. I decided to pack a bag and leave for a hotel. Anywhere would be better than staying in this cursed building tonight. I quickly changed my clothes, grabbed my phone and laptop, and headed for the door. But just as I stepped out of my bedroom, I heard a faint rustling sound coming from the front door. Someone was outside. My mind immediately flashed to the figure I’d seen through the peephole last week. Thankfully, I’d installed a security camera after that incident. It was battery-powered, so it still worked even without electricity. The camera had night vision, too, so I could see exactly who was outside. I crept quietly to the monitor and glanced at the feed. It was my neighbor—David from the apartment across the hall. He was standing at my door, nervously glancing around. “David, what are you doing outside my apartment?” I called out. He jumped, startled, then leaned closer to the door and whispered, “Keep your voice down, Rachel… I’ve got a bad feeling about tonight. Something’s going to happen in this building.” “What do you mean?” He swallowed hard, his face pale. “Do you remember Mr. Miller? The security guard who died last week? I think… I think he’s come back for revenge.” A chill ran down my spine. Was he seriously saying this? If it had just been my imagination, I could’ve dismissed it. But hearing David voice the same fear… I tightened my grip on my phone, unsure of what to say. David continued, his voice trembling. “The whole building’s too quiet. I didn’t want to go to other floors—I was too scared. I thought maybe… maybe we could stick together.” He paused, then added hesitantly, “I brought these… do you want one?” He held up two small paper talismans, his hands shaking. Looking at his trembling legs and pale face, I felt an odd sense of calm wash over me. “How generous of you,” I said dryly. “What made you decide to share one with me?” David hesitated, then muttered, “Well… I’ve been following you for a while. I’m… a fan of your content.” A fan? Of me? I’m a beauty blogger. Why the hell would I have a male fan?
I never had much interaction with David before. At most, we’d exchange awkward nods in the elevator. Back then, he was just like he is now—timid, shrinking into himself like a mushroom that thrives in the shadows. I used to think he was pathetic, someone unworthy of a second thought. But tonight, as strange as it sounds, he didn’t seem so bad. “Rachel, I’ll leave the talisman outside your door. Don’t forget to grab it…” On the security monitor, I watched as David carefully placed the paper on the ground, glancing around nervously before retreating. I didn’t tell him I was about to leave the building entirely. “Thanks, David. You should go back inside now.” He muttered a small “okay” before shuffling off, his head ducked low. His footsteps grew fainter until I heard the sound of his door creaking open and slamming shut. I waited a few more minutes, just to be sure, before cautiously opening my door and picking up the talisman. If Mr. Miller had come back… maybe this flimsy piece of paper would actually help. I turned back toward my apartment, my mind racing. My laptop was still in the living room. If I could just grab it and shove it into my bag, I’d be out of here in no time. I pulled the door shut behind me. But just before it could fully close, something suddenly jammed it open. Thud. The sound made my blood run cold. I turned, heart pounding, and saw it: a man’s hand wedged in the doorframe. Was it… was it Mr. Miller? Panic surged through me. I threw my weight against the door, desperate to shut it, but the hand was too strong. No matter how hard I pushed, I couldn’t get the door to close. Then I remembered the talisman. Clutching it tightly, I raised it like a weapon. The door swung open, and in the dim flicker of my candlelight, I saw… David.
elief flooded through me. It wasn’t a ghost—it was just David. But something still wasn’t right. He stood in the doorway, perfectly still, his figure shrouded in shadows. He looked the same as always, yet there was something deeply unsettling about him now. My chest tightened as my heartbeat roared in my ears. Forcing a shaky smile, I tried to play it cool. “David, what are you doing? You scared me half to death. Seriously, jokes like this aren’t funny.” He smiled too. A slow, eerie smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Rachel.” “But I just can’t help myself anymore. Rachel, I’m so sorry… I like you too much.” As he spoke, he stepped inside, moving closer to me. “Don’t come any closer!” I shouted, stumbling backward. But he didn’t stop. In fact, he quickened his pace, grabbing me effortlessly before I could run. I screamed, but it made no difference. He pulled out a rope and tied me to a chair, his movements quick and practiced. “What do you want?!” I cried, my voice trembling. “Is it money? Tell me how much you want—just don’t hurt me!” David shook his head, his expression strangely calm. Even… gentle. “Money? No, Rachel. I don’t want your money.” His voice was soft, almost tender, which only made it more terrifying. “I told you—I’m your fan. How could you think I’d hurt you? I only want to be close to you. That’s all.” My skin crawled. “This is how you show you like me?!” I spat, struggling against the ropes. David tilted his head, his smile faltering. “I know you don’t like me. I know you think I’m pathetic. That’s why I never said anything before. I was happy just watching you from afar. Just seeing you was enough for me… but…” His voice cracked as he knelt in front of me, his face twisted with a strange mix of sadness and frustration. “But then you saw me, didn’t you? I couldn’t stop myself from watching you. And when you installed that camera by your door… I knew you’d caught me. I couldn’t come back after that. I tried to hold back, Rachel, I really did. But I just couldn’t anymore.” My breath hitched. The eye. The one I’d seen through the peephole. “It was you,” I whispered, horrified. David nodded, his smile returning. “Yes, it was me.” My stomach churned with nausea. He grinned wider, his face alight with an unsettling joy. “But it’s okay now. You’re mine, Rachel. Finally, you’re mine.” I’d rather die than let this creep keep me tied up like some kind of sick trophy. As he leaned closer, I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for whatever horror was coming. Then, suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from outside the door. Thump. Thump. One step light, the other dragging, like someone with a limp. The sound didn’t stop at my door. Instead, it continued down the hall—toward David’s apartment. A loud knock shattered the silence. Bang. Bang. Bang. A low, raspy voice followed. “Room 802. David, are you home?”
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