Chapter 2: Mr. Harris Isn’t Mr. Harris

I almost dropped to the floor, knees buckling.

Could 401 have been right?

Is there really a red-eyed monkey in this building?

That blood-red eye spun in lazy, unnatural circles. I heard heavy, urgent breathing—a wet rasp that fogged the peephole’s glass, thickening the air with the smell of rain and city trash wafting up from the hallway. Somewhere, a siren wailed far off, grounding me in the city’s midnight pulse.

As if sensing my hesitation, the thing outside hammered the door even harder.

*Bang bang bang*

*Bang bang bang*

I didn’t dare move. My voice got stuck somewhere between my lungs and my teeth. I pressed flat against the wall, drywall cool against my back, phone slick in my sweaty palm. Every horror movie I’d ever seen flashed through my head—none of them ever ended well for the girl at the door.

Suddenly, the blood-red eye retreated, and I could finally see who—or what—stood in the hall.

Relief washed over me.

It was just Mr. Harris, the grizzled old guy with the Mets cap and hands like sandpaper from years of fixing leaks.

Mr. Harris was mute, so of course he just knocked. But why were his eyes so bloodshot? Was he sick? Burned out from too many late-night calls?

Trying to calm my nerves, I checked the group chat for any management updates.

Sure enough, buried between pizza coupons and angry memes, was an American-style alert:

[ATTN: Residents – Due to Hurricane Eloise’s sudden shift, maintenance will be doing emergency door/window checks after 11:30 PM. Sorry for the inconvenience! – Bldg Mgmt.]

Below, the chat had blown up:

[What the actual hell, Management?]

[If anyone wakes my baby up, I’m suing.]

[This building is a joke.]

No wonder I’d missed it, lost in a sea of all-caps rants and eyeroll GIFs.

I exhaled. It was just maintenance. No monster, no urban legend—just Mr. Harris and his routine checks.

I reached for the doorknob. But something felt off. The air was too still, the silence too deep. Suddenly, a memory from childhood flashed—Grandma always said, don’t open the door for strangers, especially not at midnight.

I peered through the peephole again, really looking this time.

Wait—wasn’t Mr. Harris barely 5'7”? This guy was bulkier, taller. And Mr. Harris’s skin was usually sun-dark and shiny from afternoons playing chess outside. This guy’s was a weird, grayish white, like he’d been soaking in bleach.

A chill prickled down my spine. Was I seeing things? Was this some horror novel come to life?

He smiled—a stiff, unnatural smile. His mouth stretched too wide, teeth yellowed, gums pale as death. Those blood-red eyes never left my door. My pulse raced, a bead of sweat sliding down my temple. My hand trembled on the lock.

He turned away, heading for 502 across the hall.

And as he moved, my stomach dropped. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.