Chapter 3: The Monster Wears Skin

I slapped a hand over my mouth, cold sweat soaking my back.

When "Mr. Harris" turned, the back of his neck split open—gray-white skin peeling like rotten fabric. Beneath it, a mass of black-and-yellow fur writhed. No human spine. A tail, covered in dark red fur, slithered out from under his belt, twitching like a snake.

Under his suit jacket, two monkey paws pushed against the inside of the human skin, tufts of human hair snagged on their claws.

I bit my tongue, tasting blood. I pressed back into the shadows by the door, phone forgotten in my hand. This was something out of a Cronenberg movie—skin split open, fur and muscle writhing underneath. Not a dream. Not a prank.

It was a monkey—a huge, hulking one, nearly six feet tall. Wearing Mr. Harris’s skin. It had peeled him like a grape.

When it raised its hand to knock on 502’s door, the hair on its head lifted grotesquely—a sticky monkey head pressed out from inside the scalp. It twisted, blood-red eyes rolling to meet my peephole, lips splitting in a rictus grin.

Then, in one horrifying motion, it turned its face back, hiding the monkey head beneath the human mask. It knocked on 502’s door.

*Bang, bang, bang*

The sound echoed, sharp as gunshots. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my phone. I fumbled for the chat, desperate to warn 502. But what could I even say? Who would believe this?

Before I could type, the lock on 502’s door clicked. The door opened.

Through the peephole, I watched "Mr. Harris" walk into 502’s apartment. 502—short, grease-stained from the auto shop, always up too late—grumbled, "It’s freaking midnight, still checking doors and windows? Don’t other people need to sleep? Damn old man, hurry up, I’ve got work."

"Mr. Harris" just nodded, silent. The door slammed shut.

My finger hovered over the chat. 502 was a creep—always staring, always dropping comments like, "Hey hot stuff, bet you make more money in one night than I do in a week." I deleted my warning. Not out of spite—just fear. Whatever this thing was, it was too bizarre to explain. If I messaged him, I’d be next.

I silenced my phone, every muscle tense. The hurricane raged outside, wind shrieking against the glass. No one would hear me scream. For a second, I’d trade all the city lights for the sound of crickets and the smell of fresh-cut grass back home in Ohio.