Chapter 4: Scratching at the Door

I stumbled back, barely able to breathe.

Could it sense I was inside, even through the door?

The thought pulsed through my brain. Maybe it could hear my heartbeat. Maybe it could smell my fear. Goosebumps raced down my arms.

Before I could move, a harsh screeching started up outside—the thing was scratching at my door.

The scraping sound vibrated through my teeth, making my whole body clench up. It was like nails on a chalkboard, but worse, primal, desperate.

I clamped my hands over my ears, paralyzed.

This door wasn’t even solid wood.

If its nails were sharp enough, it could break through in no time.

I forced myself not to panic.

I couldn’t make a sound—couldn’t let it know for sure I was home.

I tiptoed into the kitchen, flicking the light on as softly as possible. My hand shook as I dug through the silverware drawer. I grabbed the biggest chef’s knife we owned, cold steel pressed against my palm, and tucked it into my waistband.

My thumbs flew across my phone, misspelling "emergency" three times before autocorrect saved me. I texted 911 our building address and prayed someone would take me seriously.

If it broke through before the cops got here, I’d have to fight for my life.

My heart thundered in my chest.

I pressed my back to the counter, every muscle wound tight, counting the seconds between each shrieking scratch.

Suddenly, the scratching stopped.

A little girl’s voice rang out in the hallway:

“Mom, where are you? I’m locked outside.”

“Dad, Mom!”

Her voice bounced off the cinderblock walls—a sound that, any other night, would’ve faded into the background. Tonight, it was nightmare fuel.

I recognized the voice—it was the kid from 701 upstairs.

Oh god.

My stomach dropped. Not her. I scrambled back to the peephole, chest clenching.

The thing had already scuttled away.