Chapter 1: The Group-Buy Nightmare

Late at night, a weird link popped up in our neighborhood’s Facebook Messenger group chat:

"Group Buy: Corpse of 202—Six spots left. Claim your piece."

I froze.

Because I live in 202.

I stared at the screen, the number glowing in the dark like a threat meant just for me.

A jolt ran through me, like when you take a sip and realize someone handed you the wrong Starbucks order—except this time, the mix-up could kill me.

This wasn’t funny. Not even close.

My hands shook as I typed out a message, calling out whoever thought this was a joke. People’s sense of humor always gets darker late at night, but this? It crossed a line. Still, even as anger surged, curiosity gnawed at me—like peeking under the bed after watching a scary movie. My finger hovered over the link, pulse racing. Every horror story I’d ever read flashed through my mind, but curiosity won out.

It looked like any other group-buy page—except this one had six slots, each labeled for a body part: Head. Hands. Torso. Legs. No price. Just a timer counting down.

My mouth went dry. Suddenly the glow of my phone screen felt cold, almost surgical.

The thought made my skin crawl.

I sat up in bed, heart pounding, the silence in my apartment feeling heavier than before. Even the old air conditioner seemed to shudder at the idea.

And right then, to my horror, the group-buy was already completed.

I backed out of the page and returned to the chat, where some neighbors were joking, telling me to deliver the goods to their doors.

One neighbor joked, “Should I Venmo you for my share?” Another said, “Hey, 202, hope you come with free delivery!”

Sarcastic laughing emojis flooded the chat. My jaw clenched; I could practically hear their stifled giggles echoing down the hallway. The idea that anyone would make light of this made my stomach churn.

I was furious. My hands balled into fists, knuckles white, as I muted the group, turned off the lights, and tried to sleep.

But lying there in the dark, the apartment creaked with every gust of wind, and I pulled the covers up to my chin like a kid hiding from monsters. I couldn’t help but stare at the ceiling, imagining shadows creeping beneath the door. I pressed my pillow over my ears, hoping to block out both the noise and the sense of dread clawing at me.

I don’t know how long I slept before my phone buzzed, jolting me awake. It was already three in the morning.

My phone buzzed with a Facebook Messenger ping from 302 upstairs. He’d sent me several messages: "Did you see the group? Something huge just happened."

My vision blurred as I rolled over, phone in hand. I didn’t even want to check the group. I replied directly: "What happened?"

His replies came fast:

"Someone died in our complex."

"Next door, Building A, Apartment 401. Same as you—they got made into a group-buy product, posted in their building’s chat. A few neighbors thought it was a prank and joined in."

"Then, just now, they found out—401 was killed and chopped up. The body parts were delivered to those neighbors’ doors."

"The cops should be handling it right now."

"Word is, the suspect is a neighbor from our own building, so the whole community is on lockdown."

"You’d better hide somewhere else, quick."

I stared at the screen, dumbstruck.

Sweat prickled at my temples. I looked around my apartment, every shadow suddenly sharper. Where could I possibly hide? Didn’t he just say the entire complex is locked down?

And if I ran outside in a panic—what if the killer was lurking out there? Wouldn’t I be walking straight into danger?

My mind spun. The room seemed to shrink around me as paranoia settled in, thick as August humidity. I glanced at the baseball bat leaning against my closet. For the first time, it felt necessary.

In my confusion, I typed a message to 302: "I have nowhere to go. Can I hide at your place?"

Just before I hit send, a chill shot through my mind—

I barely know 302, yet he’s so eager to help in the middle of the night, even urging me to run.

Could it be he wants me to hide at his place on purpose?

The killer hasn’t been caught yet. Could he be the killer?

I set my phone down, palms sweating, and listened for any creak from the ceiling above.