1 “Has anyone here ever heard a goose scream at three in the morning?” I have. Right outside my front door. My neighbors were convinced I was slaughtering live geese in my living room. They swore the sound of a meat cleaver hacking through bone gave them nightmares every single night. They even posted a video to the building’s group chat. There was blood. There were agonizing shrieks. The evidence was irrefutable. I couldn’t defend myself. That is, until the police took my spare key and unlocked the door to the apartment right next to mine. In that moment, everyone finally shut their mouths. But then my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: “The game continues. This time, you’re the goose.” … When Brenda from 1603 tagged me in the tenant group chat, I was curled up in my gaming chair, deeply invested in a match of Goose Goose Duck. My phone vibrated violently against the edge of my desk, rapid-fire notifications popping up on the screen. I frowned and tabbed out of the game. [Brenda – 1603]: @1601 Sweetheart, I am begging you. Can you please stop slaughtering geese in your apartment? It’s been three days in a row! The smell of raw blood is drifting into the hallway, and the screaming is waking up my grandson! He can’t even take a nap! Slaughtering geese? I stared at the screen, completely baffled. 1601 was my unit. Top floor. I lived alone. I hadn’t touched a live bird in my entire life. My fingers flew across the keyboard. [1601]: Brenda, are you sure you have the right apartment? I don’t have any animals here, let alone geese. I’m at work most of the day anyway. The group chat went dead silent for a moment. Then, a few of the usual lurkers chimed in. [Dave – 1502]: @1601 I think I heard it too. Late at night, you can hear some weird bird noises… [Sarah – 1404]: Yeah, I definitely heard it. Sounded like ducks or geese squawking. I let out a breathless laugh, eager to clear up the ridiculous misunderstanding. [1601]: Guys, I promise I’m not running a slaughterhouse! I play this online video game called Goose Goose Duck. It’s a social deduction game, and you have to use voice chat. Maybe my speakers are too loud, or you’re hearing my voice through the vents? I am so sorry! I’ll wear a headset from now on. The tension in the digital room seemed to evaporate. A few people even asked what the game was about and if they could play. I let out a sigh of relief. I was just typing out another apology when Brenda fired back. This time, it was a video file. [Brenda – 1603]: You don’t believe me? Watch this! I recorded it this afternoon! My grandson is terrified! I tapped the video. It started in Brenda’s living room. I could hear a toddler whimpering and a faint, high-pitched honking sound. The camera moved, tracking the sound out into the hallway. The noise grew louder and more frantic as whoever was filming climbed the stairs. The camera finally stopped in front of a door. My door. Unit 1601. In the video, the horrific, desperate shrieking reached a fever pitch. It sounded like an animal being tortured, and it was undeniably coming from behind my door. But what made the hair on the back of my neck stand up was the bottom edge of the doorframe. There was a thick, dark, viscous smear seeping out from under the crack. It caught the glare of the phone’s flashlight. It looked exactly like coagulated blood. The video ended. A cold chill crawled down my spine. The group chat exploded. [Sarah – 1404]: Oh my god, that noise is making my skin crawl! [Dave – 1502]: Is that blood under the door?! That’s sick! [Brenda – 1603]: @1601 What the hell are you doing in there?! The smell of copper is sickening! You’re terrorizing the whole building! [Mark – 1501]: Just because you live on the top floor doesn’t mean you can turn the place into a butcher shop! My ears were ringing. My fingers felt like ice. Impossible. Absolutely impossible. I threw my headset off, sprinted to my front door, and yanked it open. The hallway lights flickered on. The polished concrete floor outside my door was spotless. There wasn’t a speck of dust, let alone a pool of blood. I whipped out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo of the clean hallway, and retreated back inside. I practically ran through my apartment, taking rapid-fire photos of my living room, my spotless kitchen, and even the inside of my fridge. I dumped the photos into the group chat. [1601]: Look for yourselves! There is nothing outside my door! There are no birds in my apartment! That video has to be fake! [1601]: @Brenda I don’t know why you are doing this, but I swear to you, I am not killing anything! 2 Brenda immediately sent an audio message. Her voice was thick with a heavy, rural accent and trembling with fake tears. “I’m an old woman! I don’t even know how to edit a photo, let alone a video! My little grandson was taking a nap, and that horrible screaming woke him up! He cried until he threw up! I only recorded it to show my son!” “You… you can’t just bully an old woman and a baby like this…” The moment her voice note played, the entire building turned on me. [Sarah – 1404]: She’s an old lady raising a kid, @1601. Just apologize and stop doing whatever you’re doing. [Mark – 1501]: Yeah, stop arguing with an elder. The video is clear as day. The noise is coming from your place. [Dave – 1502]: Who knows what goes on in there? She claims she’s ‘at work’ all day. [Tom – 1204]: Haha, maybe that isn’t a goose screaming. Maybe it’s just how she ‘works’ from home. Tom followed it up with a sleazy, winking emoji. The blood rushed to my face. My hands shook with pure, unadulterated rage as I typed. [1601]: What the hell is wrong with you people?! This is slander! I haven’t done anything wrong! The pushback was instantaneous. [Mark – 1501]: Then explain the video! Explain the blood! Are you saying the entire building is hallucinating? [Sarah – 1404]: She probably threw the carcass down the trash chute and bleached the floor before taking those pictures. [Dave – 1502]: Blood seeping out from under the door… honestly, it sounds like some kind of cult ritual. [Brenda – 1603]: Oh my lord, don’t say that! Is our building cursed? The conversation derailed rapidly, shifting from noise complaints to wild accusations about my morality, and finally settling on bizarre, supernatural conspiracy theories. A heavy weight pressed down on my chest. There was no reasoning with a mob. I muted the group chat, slammed my phone face-down on the desk, and fought back angry tears. Why was this happening to me? Eventually, Martha from 1503 stepped in to play peacemaker. She told everyone to calm down, drop the witchcraft talk, and just agree to keep the noise down tomorrow. The chat finally went quiet. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the agonizing shrieks and saw that thick, dark sludge creeping under my door. I woke up late on Saturday morning, feeling like I had a hangover. When I unlocked my phone, the red notification bubble on the group chat made my stomach drop. Brenda had tagged me again. This time, her tone was frantic and furious. [Brenda – 1603]: @1601 You sick freak! I complained in the chat yesterday because I was worried about my grandson, and this is how you retaliate?! What did we ever do to you?! Panic seized me. I scrolled up rapidly. Brenda had posted a series of photos. The first image was of her front door. The steel door was splattered with massive, irregular splashes of dark, rotting blood. It dripped down the metal like thick oil. The second photo was of the welcome mat. Sitting in the center of the mat was a severed, bloody goose head. The neck was jagged, like it had been hacked off with a dull blade. The bird’s eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the camera. I gagged, a surge of bile rising in my throat. The chat was a warzone. The messages were scrolling faster than I could read. Brenda dropped another audio file, her voice cracking into hysterics. “My grandson opened the door this morning and passed out from the shock! He’s running a massive fever! He’s hallucinating! We’re at the emergency room right now!” “@1601 I am begging you! If you have a problem with me, take it out on me! Don’t hurt my baby! I’ll get on my knees and apologize! I shouldn’t have said anything yesterday…” Before I could even type a response, Brenda’s son, Greg, hijacked the chat. His messages were explosive, violent, and laced with profanity. He uploaded a picture of his kid lying in a hospital bed, a cooling patch stuck to his forehead. The boy’s face was flushed red, his tiny brow furrowed in pain. The digital mob descended on me. [Sarah – 1404]: That is evil! This is actual witchcraft! [Mark – 1501]: Psycho bitch! You do this just because someone complained about the noise? [Dave – 1502]: Call the cops! This is harassment and assault! [Greg – 1603]: @1601 Get the hell out here! Stop hiding! My mind went completely blank. My hands and feet felt like ice. What the hell was going on? Who was doing this? 3 My fingers trembled as I typed. [1601]: It wasn’t me! I have no idea what is happening! I didn’t even leave my apartment yesterday! Greg fired back instantly. [Greg – 1603]: Bullshit! Who else could it be?! The video proved the blood was at your door, and now there’s a severed head at mine! You think we’re stupid?! You’re dead meat! [1601]: I swear to God it wasn’t me! This is a massive misunderstanding! [Greg – 1603]: Misunderstand this, you crazy bitch! [Greg – 1603]: You want to play games? Fine. Open your damn door! A second later, I heard the heavy, thundering sound of boots sprinting up the stairwell. A man was screaming at the top of his lungs. Smash! Smash! Smash! Deafening blows rained down on my front door. The heavy steel frame actually shuddered on its hinges. “Open the door, you psycho! Get out here! I’m going to kill you!” It was Greg. I was paralyzed with terror. My knees buckled, and I practically crawled to the door, pressing my eye against the peephole. Greg was standing in the hallway. He was a massive guy, his face flushed purple with rage. His eyes were wild. And in his right hand, he was gripping a massive, gleaming meat cleaver. He was hacking at my deadbolt like a madman. Behind him, hovering near the stairwell, a small crowd of neighbors had gathered to watch the execution, but none of them dared to step closer. “Greg, stop! You need to calm down! It wasn’t me! I’m calling the police!” I screamed through the door, my voice cracking in absolute terror. My hands shook so violently I dropped my phone twice before I managed to dial 911 and then the building’s security desk. “Call the cops! Good! Let them see what kind of sick freak you are!” Greg roared, switching from hacking at the lock to kicking the heavy door. The metal groaned under his weight. “Do you smell that?” Someone in the crowd whispered loudly enough for the sound to carry up the stairs. “Yeah. It smells like rotting meat.” “She didn’t clean up the carcass. Sick.” “She brought this on herself. I hope he breaks the door down.” The whispers drifted under the door, stinging worse than physical blows. I was terrified, exhausted, and crying hysterically. The building’s security team arrived first. Two guards and the property manager had to physically tackle Greg to rip the cleaver out of his hands. The manager pounded on my door, ordering me to open it so we could “talk this out.” I wiped my face, my hands shaking uncontrollably, and slowly unlatched the deadbolt. The second the door cracked open, Greg shoved past the guards like a bulldozer. Before I could even process his movement, a massive hand cracked across my jaw. The slap sounded like a gunshot. My ears rang violently, and sparks danced in my vision. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back, spitting profanities in my face. His breath reeked of stale cigarettes. “Let her go! Step back!” The guards tackled him again, prying his fingers out of my hair. I huddled behind one of the guards, my hair a tangled mess, my cheek burning like fire. I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered. “I didn’t do it… I swear to God, I didn’t touch those birds… You can search my apartment! Check the fridge! Check everywhere!” I screamed at the manager, my voice raw and broken. “Search your place? You probably threw the evidence down the chute!” Greg bellowed, struggling against the guards. Right then, the elevator pinged. Two uniformed police officers stepped out. Taking one look at the chaotic scene, they immediately took control. They separated everyone and started taking statements. I clung to the older officer like a lifeline, sobbing as I quickly explained everything. I swore I didn’t kill anything, didn’t leave the head at the door, and begged them to investigate to clear my name. The older officer listened to my frantic rambling. As I spoke, his brow furrowed deeper and deeper. He looked around the hallway, and suddenly, his nostrils flared. He cut Greg off mid-rant. His voice was dangerously calm. “What is that smell?” Everyone froze. Instinctively, we all took a deep breath. The older officer’s face turned completely rigid. He raised a hand, demanding absolute silence. He stepped slowly into the hallway, tracking the scent like a bloodhound. He stopped directly in front of Unit 1602. 1602 belonged to Diane, a single mother with an eight-year-old son. We rarely spoke, but we’d exchange polite nods in the elevator. The officer knocked firmly on the door. Thud. Thud. Thud. No answer. He pounded harder. “Police! Open the door!” Dead silence. Except the heavy knocking seemed to disturb the air inside, pushing an even thicker wave of that putrid odor into the hallway. A terrible, dark dread settled in my stomach. A memory suddenly snapped into focus. “Officer,” I stuttered, pointing at the door. “Diane… the woman who lives there. She gave me a spare key.” “She said she works late sometimes, and her kid gets home early. She gave it to me for emergencies, but I’ve never used it.” The officer’s eyes locked onto mine. “Go get it.” I ran into my apartment, dug through my junk drawer, and pulled out the key with the red plastic tag. I handed it over. The older officer took the key, stared at the heavy wooden door for a second, and shot a silent look at his partner. The younger officer immediately unclipped the safety on his holster, resting his hand on his weapon. “Everyone, step back. Right now,” the older officer commanded. The crowd of neighbors instinctively shrank toward the stairwell. Even Greg went dead silent, staring at the door with wide eyes. The key turned in the lock. The door slowly creaked open. A tidal wave of absolute, concentrated rot exploded out of the apartment. It was so potent, so overwhelmingly foul, that the three of us standing near the door immediately started dry heaving, stumbling backward to escape the stench. The living room was pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn tight. But the sliver of hallway light spilling into the apartment was enough. The hardwood floor was a disaster zone, smeared with massive, dark pools of liquid. And lying perfectly still in the center of that carnage, were two bodies.
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