Chapter 4: The Chewing Sounds

After 502’s door slammed, silence settled over the hallway.

I pressed my ear to the door, straining to hear anything. At first, nothing. Then—

*Thud.*

A heavy, dull thump. Then a wet, tearing sound, bone snapping. And then—a piercing scream. "Ahhh—!" It was cut off, sharp as a guillotine. Then came the chewing—the sounds were wet, like someone gnawing on a rack of ribs at a Fourth of July cookout—except the smell was all wrong, metallic and rotten.

My stomach lurched. I backed into the corner, knees hugged to my chest. The sounds crawled up my spine, scraping away every last bit of hope.

Suddenly, 502’s messages popped up:

[501, did you know? Why didn’t you warn me? Why?]

[I hurt so much, he’s tearing off my skin, it hurts...]

I exited the chat. The group exploded—

601: [Who’s screaming downstairs?]

602: [Yeah, keep it down. Some of us work early.]

Then they started tagging me—

601: [501, is it you making all that noise? I hate you livestreamers, always up all night flirting with your camera.]

602: [Bet it’s 501. Which big tipper’s task is it this time? Did he make you scream?]

I almost laughed. Our building was new, barely six floors. 601 and 602—both middle-aged construction guys—had hassled me since I moved in, calling me "sweetheart" in that mocking way, asking for my Facebook. When I refused, they got nasty.

I replied anyway:

[Sorry, not me. I’m visiting family for a few days—not home.]

They pounced:

601: [‘Visiting family’—sure, more like spending the night with some big tipper.]

602: [Yeah, livestreamer girls are all sluts, out all night.]

I gritted my teeth. In this city, privacy was a bad joke. For a second, I’d give anything to be back in Ohio.

Then, 401 jumped in—

401: [It wasn’t 501. It was 502. He’s almost dead.]

401: [It’s skinning him now.]

401: [That monkey is skinning him.]

My heart stopped. How did 401 know? She was on the fourth floor. The group chat got rowdy:

601: [Are you crazy? Who are you trying to scare?]

402: [401, quit it. Lying isn’t funny.]

401 tagged me:

[I’m not joking. 501, you saw it, didn’t you?]

My hands shook so bad I almost dropped the phone, but I forced myself to type:

[Saw what? I’m not even home. 401, stop joking.]

401 added me privately. I hesitated, then accepted.

401: [Are you really not home? If you are, I can help you survive.]

[Did you notice? No one below the fifth floor is talking. They’re all dead except me.]

[Even if you hide, it’ll find you.]

I scrolled up. She was right—no one from floors one through four had messaged since midnight.

401—real name Lisa, from Indiana, always the first to offer a casserole or a Band-Aid—had helped me move in. Still, I didn’t dare trust her.

[Ma’am, what is happening? Why say these things? I’m really not home.]

I didn’t check her reply, eyes glued to the peephole. A pool of dark red liquid crept from under 502’s door. The handle clicked and turned.