CHAPTER FIVE
1235 Words
Ada Bennett
I didn’t answer the call.
I let it ring.
At 12:07 a.m., the sound feels louder than it should, shrill, invasive, bouncing off the walls of my apartment as if the darkness itself is amplifying it. I stare at the ceiling, heart pounding so hard it almost aches.
When it finally stops, the silence is worse.
For a few seconds, nothing happens. My phone lies faceup on the nightstand, screen black again. The quiet stretches thin.
Then it buzzes.
I flinch.
Unknown Number.
A text message.
He’s closer than you think.
My throat tightens.
He.
Not I. Not you. He.
Before I can fully process it, another message appears.
Check your door.
A cold wave moves through me. Slowly, carefully, I sit up. The apartment is dim, with faint streetlight slipping through the curtains. Everything looks normal. Still.
But my heart won’t slow down.
The door is at the end of the short hallway. Closed. Locked. Exactly the way I left it.
This is manipulation, I tell myself. They want you to panic.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed anyway.
The hardwood floor is icy beneath my feet as I step into the hallway. Every small sound, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint settling of the building feels magnified.
I reach the door and stare at it.
The deadbolt is turned. The chain is in place.
Normal.
But something feels wrong.
My eyes lower slowly.
There’s a thin white envelope lying just inside the door.
My blood turns to ice.
I didn’t see that earlier. I would have seen that.
My fingers tremble as I pick it up. No address. No stamp. Just my name written across the front in neat, deliberate handwriting.
Ada.
The envelope is unsealed.
Inside, a single sheet of paper.
One sentence, typed in clean black ink.
You should have stayed gone.
The room tilts.
Gone.
Gone from where?
Gone from Boston?
My chest constricts so suddenly that I struggle to breathe.
No one here knows about Boston. No one here knows why I left. I made sure of that.
My phone vibrates again in my hand.
Unknown Number.
This time, I answer.
“What do you want?” My voice is steadier than I feel.
Silence.
Then breathing.
But this isn’t the soft, controlled breathing from before. This is heavier. Closer. Intentional.
“I see you, Ada.”
The voice is distorted but unmistakably male. Calm. Measured.
My body locks.
“Who is this?”
A soft chuckle.
“You don’t remember me?”
The words slice deeper than they should.
“I don’t know you,” I say, though doubt flickers somewhere beneath the surface.
“You were never very observant,” he replies. “You should work on that.”
A chill creeps down my spine.
“How did you get into my apartment?” I demand.
Another quiet laugh.
“I didn’t.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there, phone still pressed to my ear long after the call ends.
If he didn’t come inside… then how did the envelope get there?
A faint sound in the hallway outside makes me freeze. Footsteps. Probably a neighbor. Probably nothing.
But my imagination paints a picture of someone standing just beyond the door, listening.
Watching.
I recheck the deadbolt. Slide the chain again just to be sure. Then I retreat to my bedroom, the paper still clutched in my hand.
Boston.
Rain-soaked streets. A warehouse near the harbor. Headlights cutting through darkness.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I left that life behind. Changed cities. Changed jobs. Changed everything.
My phone buzzes again.
Julian.
Relief and suspicion twist together inside me.
Why is he calling at 12:14 a.m.?
I answer.
“Hello?”
“Are you okay?”
His voice is controlled, but there’s something beneath it tonight. Urgency.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask automatically.
A pause. “I just had a feeling.”
A feeling.
I glance at the note in my hand.
“Someone left something at my door,” I admit.
Silence.
Not confusion.
Silence.
“What kind of something?” he asks evenly.
“A note.”
Another pause. “What did it say?”
I hesitate. “Nothing important.”
“Ada,” he says softly, and something about the way he says my name makes my pulse shift, “don’t lie to me.”
I walk to the window and pull the curtain aside just enough to look out.
The street is quiet.
Almost empty.
Except,
A man is standing near the corner.
Too still. Too deliberate.
Watching my building.
“Julian,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“There’s someone outside.”
His breathing changes, barely.
“Stay inside,” he says immediately. Not gently. Commanding. “Lock everything.”
“I did.”
“I’m coming over.”
My heart stumbles.
“You know where I live?”
A beat of silence.
“Yes.”
The word lands heavily between us.
Outside, the figure shifts slightly, stepping beneath the streetlight. I can’t see his face clearly, but I feel it—the weight of his gaze.
“Who is he?” I ask quietly.
There’s a pause.
Longer this time.
When Julian speaks again, the softness is gone.
“He’s someone who should have stayed buried.”
A flicker of fear pulses through me. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve seen what he does.”
The man outside tilts his head slightly, as if he knows I’m watching him.
“You’re scaring me,” I admit.
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Alive.
Not safe.
Alive.
The figure takes a slow step backward into the shadows.
Then another.
Retreating, but not leaving.
“He knows about you,” Julian says. “Which means he’s testing boundaries.”
“Boundaries between who?”
“You and me.”
My breath catches.
“You said you’re coming over.”
“I am.”
“How far are you?”
A slight pause.
“Close.”
The word sends something sharp through my chest. Dangerous.
Headlights sweep across the street as a car passes, briefly illuminating the man’s face. I can’t make out his features—but I see the curve of a smile.
Then he steps fully into darkness.
Gone.
“Julian,” I whisper. “If I open my door right now… will you be on the other side of it?”
Silence.
Heavy.
Then, “Yes.”
Immediate. Certain.
My hand tightens around the doorknob before I realize I’ve moved.
“You shouldn’t open it yet,” he adds, voice lower now. Closer somehow. “Wait for me to knock.”
“How will I know it’s you?”
“You’ll know.”
The confidence in his tone sends a confusing rush of heat through me—fear tangled with something far more complicated.
The hallway outside my apartment is silent.
Too silent.
Then..
A knock.
Three slow, deliberate taps.
I didn’t hear footsteps.
Didn’t hear movement.
Just the knock.
My phone is still pressed to my ear.
“Julian…” I breathe.
“I’m here.”
The words sound impossibly close.
My fingers hover over the lock.
Behind this door could be safety.
Or something far more dangerous.
Because right now, I’m not sure which side of it the real threat is standing on.
- Writer
