1 The year I turned five, my Aunt Sarah called a repairman to fix the air conditioning. While he worked, I was supposed to be napping. When I woke up, the living room was crawling with police. Sarah was huddled on the sofa, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket, her skin a map of violet bruises and her eyes two empty craters. She never smiled again. Instead, she traced thin, red lines into her forearms with a razor, one after another, a silent tally of her pain. Her husband, Mark, quit his job to sit by her side, holding her through the night, whispering it wasn’t your fault until his voice broke. It didn’t matter. A year later, the depression finally pulled her under, and she jumped from our sixteenth-floor balcony. Mark handled the funeral with a terrifying, hollow calm. That night, he swallowed a bottle of pills to join her. For the rest of my childhood, my mother took me to the cemetery every anniversary. She’d lay flowers on the side-by-side graves and sob, “If only I hadn’t told her to call that repairman. If only I’d been there.” Then, I blinked. The sweltering heat of a Georgia July hit me like a physical blow. I was back in that apartment. I was five years old. Sarah stepped out of the kitchen, fanning herself with a magazine. “Toby, honey, the HVAC guy is on his way. Why don’t you be a good boy and take a nap in the cool room?” The doorbell rang. “Maintenance,” a man’s voice called out from the hallway. I lunged forward, throwing my small arms around Sarah’s knees with a grip like iron. “Aunt Sarah,” I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Don’t let him in.” Sarah stumbled, startled by my sudden weight. Her phone was still glowing in her hand—the service app showed a status update: Technician arrived. She looked down at me, her expression shifting from confusion to concern. She knelt, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. “Toby? What’s wrong, sweetie? You were just complaining about how hot it was.” I was shaking, but not from a chill. I knew exactly who was standing on the other side of that door. Ray Slater. A monster disguised in a blue work shirt. In my first life, I only saw him once: through the window as the police shoved him into the back of a cruiser. He was a nondescript man with grease on his collar. I remembered his tool kit spilling onto the pavement, a roll of heavy-duty duct tape tumbling out. I couldn’t explain the concept of reincarnation to her. A five-year-old doesn’t have the vocabulary for a second chance at life. I only had my tears. “I had a bad dream,” I sobbed, clutching her sundress. Sarah’s face softened. “A bad dream? About what?” “A bad man coming inside,” I choked out, the words tumbling over each other. “I dreamed about police in the living room. I dreamed you were hurt, and Mommy was crying, and Uncle Mark went away. I kept calling you, but you wouldn’t wake up.” It sounded like the frantic ramblings of a child spooked by a nightmare. The doorbell rang again. More insistent this time. Sarah’s eyes drifted toward the door. I let out a sharp, jagged scream. “Don’t open it! Please, Sarah, don’t open the door!” Terrified by my reaction, she pulled me into her arms, shushing me. “Okay, okay. I won’t. I won’t open it yet.” Outside, there was a brief silence. Then, a polite knock. “Mrs. Miller? It’s Ray from Home-Shield Maintenance. You called about the central air?” Sarah held me tight, staying far from the entryway. “I’m sorry, Ray,” she called out, her voice slightly strained. “Something’s come up. The kid is sick. We’ll have to reschedule.” There was a pause. Then, the man chuckled. It was a low, neighborly sound—the kind of laugh that was supposed to put you at ease. “It’s a record-breaker out here today, Mrs. Miller. You sure you want the little guy suffering in this heat? It’ll only take me twenty minutes.” Sarah’s body went rigid. She hadn’t mentioned she had a child in the service request. She’d only checked the box for “AC not cooling.” I looked up at her, my face wet with tears. “Did you hear him? How does he know about me?” The color drained from Sarah’s cheeks. She dimmed her phone screen and began backing away from the door, her hand rhythmically patting my back to soothe me. “Don’t worry, Toby. I’ve got you. I’m not letting him in.” “Mrs. Miller,” the voice came again, closer to the wood of the door. “I’m already here. The company is going to charge you a hundred-dollar service fee regardless. It’s better if I just take a look.” Sarah took a shaky breath. “I’ll pay the fee. Just leave. Please.” Silence fell over the hallway. After a minute, the muffled sound of footsteps faded away down the carpeted corridor. Sarah kissed the top of my head. “See? He’s gone.” But I didn’t let go. I knew his type. He was a predator, and he’d been scouting this “job” for weeks. He knew my parents were out of town at a conference. He knew Mark wouldn’t be home from the office until six. He knew this old building had blind spots. “Don’t open the door for anyone today,” I whispered, my voice sounding hollow and old. Sarah’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “I won’t, Toby. I promise.” We sat in the stifling quiet of the living room for maybe ten minutes. Then, click. The ceiling fan slowed to a halt. The low hum of the refrigerator died. The lights flickered once and plunged the apartment into shadows. Sarah looked up at the darkened fixture. “A blown fuse?” She reached for her phone again. “Maybe the AC unit shorted out the whole circuit. I should call that technician back and ask if—” I lunged for the phone, nearly knocking it out of her hand. “Don’t call him! It’s him! He’s doing it!” Sarah stared at me, her eyes wide. “Toby?” “He didn’t leave,” I insisted, my hands trembling as I pressed them over her phone. “He’s at the breaker box in the hall. He’s trying to get you to open the door.” Sarah wanted to believe it was just the aging electrical system of an old apartment complex. These buildings were notorious for tripped breakers. But then, the doorbell rang. The sound was deafening in the dead silence of the unpowered home. Sarah’s face went white. “Mrs. Miller?” Ray Slater’s voice drifted through the door. “Did your power just go out? I was halfway to the elevator when I heard the transformer pop. I can take a look at your panel while I’m here.” Sarah froze, her phone halfway to her ear. She hadn’t even dialed yet. The realization finally hit her: he was answering a call she hadn’t made. “These old systems can be fire hazards,” he continued, his tone still helpful, still professional. “Especially with the kid there. Heatstroke is no joke for a little guy.” He was testing the lock. I could hear the faint, metallic scrape of a tool against the cylinder. I reached up and covered Sarah’s mouth with my small hand. She understood. She picked me up and retreated into the kitchen, our breathing the only sound in the dark. The scratching at the lock continued. Scrape. Click. Scrape. Sarah set me down behind the kitchen island and bolted to the front door. She slammed the deadbolt home, hooked the security chain, and shoved the heavy entryway bench against the frame. The scratching stopped. Ray Slater knew he’d been made. He let out a soft, chilling laugh through the door. “No need to be like that, Sarah. I’m a professional. How am I supposed to do my job if you won’t let me in?” “I’m calling the police!” Sarah shouted, her voice cracking. “Get away from my door!” “You’re wasting my time,” he sighed, the “nice guy” facade slipping. “I drove all the way out here. Gas isn’t cheap. If you report me, I lose my license. You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you?” Sarah didn’t answer. She grabbed her phone and dialed 911, but as the call connected, a memory flashed through my mind like a lightning strike. In the police reports I’d read as an adult, they said Slater hadn’t come through the front door. He’d used the maintenance ledge. These old mid-rises had narrow concrete paths outside the windows for HVAC access. They were supposed to be gated, but the locks were usually rusted or broken. Most people on the sixteenth floor felt safe. Nobody expected a man to walk along a six-inch ledge. But Slater was a technician. He knew the ledge. “The window!” I screamed, pointing toward the kitchen. “Sarah, the window!” The kitchen was dim, the midday sun blocked by the neighboring building. I saw the latch move. Just a fraction of an inch. A hand in a grey work glove gripped the frame. Sarah grabbed me and shoved me behind her as the window slid upward with a screech. Ray Slater’s face appeared in the opening. He was drenched in sweat, his skin flushed a deep, angry red. “Why are you running?” he asked, his voice low and jagged. “I just came to fix the air.” Sarah didn’t wait. She scooped me up and ran for the master bedroom. Behind us, I heard the heavy thud of work boots hitting the linoleum. He was inside. Sarah slammed the bedroom door and turned the lock, dragging the heavy nightstand in front of it. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold her phone. “I have an intruder!” she screamed into the line. “He’s in the house! He came through the window! Please, God, my nephew is here… 402 Oak Creek Drive, Apartment 1602. Hurry!” The dispatcher told her to stay on the line and hide. We heard his footsteps. He wasn’t rushing. He was walking through the apartment, taking his time. I heard drawers being pulled open. A glass breaking. The heavy thud of his tool bag hitting the coffee table. Then, the footsteps stopped right outside our door. “Sarah,” he said, his voice returning to that sickeningly sweet lilt. “You’ve got it all wrong. I saw the power go out and tried to check the external unit from the ledge. You’re overreacting.” Sarah didn’t say a word. She covered my mouth and held her breath. He kicked the door. The frame groaned. I jumped, my heart nearly stopping. Sarah pulled me into the walk-in closet and shoved me behind a row of her winter coats. “Toby, stay here,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears but fierce with a sudden, desperate strength. “No matter what you hear, do not come out. Do you hear me?” I shook my head, terrified. I had “stayed hidden” in my last life. I had slept through the screams. I wasn’t going to let her face this alone again. “Toby, please,” she whispered, kissing my forehead before closing the closet door. Through the slats of the closet, I saw her pick up a small paring knife from the fruit plate she’d prepared for my snack earlier. She stood by the side of the door, her shoulders trembling, the knife gripped in a white-knuckled fist. The door shuddered under another kick. The wood around the lock began to splinter. “Sarah Miller,” Slater shouted. My heart sank. He knew her full name. This wasn’t a random service call. He’d been watching her. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I know Mark is at the office. I know your sister is in Chicago. It’s just you and the kid.” Another kick. The nightstand slid back a few inches. Sarah spoke into the phone, her voice a ghostly whisper. “He’s breaking in. He’s going to kill us.” “Officers are in the lobby,” the dispatcher said. “Just a few more minutes, Sarah. Stay hidden.” A few minutes was an eternity. Slater kicked the door one last time, and the wood gave way. The door swung open, shoving the nightstand aside. He squeezed through the gap, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Sarah. He saw the knife and laughed. “You think you can use that? You don’t have the guts.” “Get out!” Sarah screamed. He stepped toward her. “I’ve been watching you for a month, Sarah. I know you’re soft. Just put the knife down and maybe I’ll let the kid sleep through this.” He lunged for her. Sarah swung the knife, catching his sleeve, but he was twice her size. He backhanded her across the face, sending her crashing against the bedpost. The knife clattered to the floor. He pinned her down, his hands reaching for her throat. Something in my brain snapped. The memory of the funeral, the cemetery, the years of silence—it all surged forward. I pushed the closet door open and ran. I grabbed a heavy glass water carafe from the nightstand and, with every ounce of my five-year-old strength, I swung it at the back of his head. “Leave her alone!” The glass shattered. Water and shards sprayed everywhere. Slater roared, more in surprise than pain. He let go of Sarah and turned toward me, a trickle of blood running down his neck. His eyes were pure, concentrated malice. “You little brat!” He grabbed my arm and flung me across the room. My head hit the corner of the bed frame, and the world turned into a swirl of grey and red. I slumped to the floor, my ears ringing, warm blood beginning to obscure my vision. “Toby!” Sarah shrieked, trying to crawl toward me, but Slater kicked her back. I couldn’t move. My body felt heavy, broken. But I kept my eyes open. I saw him looming over her, his face a mask of rage. “The kid shouldn’t have done that,” he growled, reaching for his belt. Suddenly, the front door of the apartment exploded inward. “Police! Drop the weapon!” And then, a voice that made me want to sob with relief. “Sarah! Toby!” Mark was here. He was actually here.
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