Chapter 1: The Delivery

11:30 p.m. I was home alone, stomach growling, and had just ordered takeout.

It was one of those sticky Midwest summer nights when even the hum of the A/C felt like a jet engine. My living room was dim except for the faint blue glow of my phone, which I kept refreshing—eyes flicking between the delivery app and the front door. Sweet-and-sour chicken from Golden Wok was on its way, and my mouth watered with anticipation. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed down Main Street, fading into the background noise of the city.

When the app showed the driver was zero feet away—right at my door—my phone buzzed in my hand.

The notification startled me. My thumb hovered over the answer button, heartbeat thudding like it wanted out of my chest. The screen flashed with a local number. I swiped to answer, expecting a muffled "I’m here" or maybe a question about my apartment number. Instead—nothing. Just silence. Not a whisper, not a click. The quiet felt so unnatural it sent a chill crawling up my spine.

I waited, wondering if the connection was bad or if the driver was struggling to speak. Growing impatient, I hung up. Instantly, a message popped up: [Hey, I’m deaf and can’t talk on the phone. Just wanted to let you know your food’s at the door. Sorry for any confusion!]

A moment later, another message followed: [You must be anxious. I’ve already left your food at the door. Please pick it up as soon as possible.]

The apology felt oddly formal—way too polite for a late-night delivery, but who was I to judge? I reached for the door. Suddenly, lines of floating comments—like those in a Twitch stream—flashed before my eyes.

[Don’t open the door. The person outside isn’t a delivery guy—he’s a killer.]

[He called to check, by the sound of your voice, if you’re a woman living alone.]

[Seriously, every horror story protagonist is so clueless. This delivery guy is obviously sketchy, and yet you’re still going to open the door?]

I froze, my hand inches from the handle, jerking back as if burned. I blinked, rubbing my eyes. Was I hallucinating? Had I finally lost it from too many late-night horror podcasts?

Are they talking about me?

I’ve never believed in the supernatural, but these words hovered in the air—impossible to ignore. My heart hammered so loud I was sure the neighbors could hear it. I forced myself to focus on the comments:

Right now, outside my door, there’s a killer who could murder me at any moment.

I pressed myself against the door, holding my breath, and peered through the peephole.

The hallway outside was empty—not a soul in sight.

The cracked linoleum stuck to my bare feet, and the air smelled faintly of burnt popcorn and cheap disinfectant. The old fluorescent lights buzzed, casting a sickly yellow haze over the hallway. Not even a stray pizza box or laundry cart in sight. Still, I kept my eye glued to the peephole, scanning every inch.

But then something felt off.

The halls in my building have automatic sensor lights—they stay on if anyone’s around.

From my door, I can see the whole hallway clearly.

But even though no one’s visible, the sensor light is still on.

That means someone is hiding out there, just outside my line of sight.

A jolt of fear shot through me. I quickly turned off the lights in my apartment and crouched down to check the gap beneath the door.

With my lights off, the hallway light should shine right through the crack. But now, a shadow blocked the middle of the gap—only faint slivers of light leaked in from the edges.

Someone really is hiding out there! Right now, he’s crouched at my door, exactly where the peephole can’t see.

Just then, my phone lit up. The delivery driver messaged again: [Why haven’t you picked up your food yet? Is there a problem? I can help you.]

My hands shook as I watched the phone. Through the crack, I could see the shadow shifting. I thought I could even hear the man’s breathing.

That clinched it—the floating comments were right. There really was someone with bad intentions lurking at my door.

A cold wave of dread swept over me. I backed away from the door at once, hurried into my room, and locked every door and window.

I grabbed my phone, ready to call 911.

But just then, another wave of floating comments drifted across my vision.

[Sigh, the girl finally uses her brain and doesn’t open the door.]

[She even thought to turn off the lights to check for the killer’s shadow—so clever!]

[But as the first victim, if she doesn’t open the door, the plot can’t continue.]

[Yeah, after the girl dies, the guy is devastated, and then his thrilling quest to solve the case begins.]

My heart skipped a beat. A terrible premonition crept over me.

Sure enough, before I could finish dialing 911, a cold laugh sounded from the door.

A strange man’s voice.

Then came the faint scrape of something heavy being dragged.

My fists clenched, and my nerves stretched taut. The old baseball bat under my bed suddenly felt like a plastic toy. Before I could react, an electric chainsaw suddenly burst through the door with a roar.

The room filled with the sharp scent of sawdust and burning metal as the chainsaw screamed through the door. Its spinning teeth chewed through the wood, shrieking.

A man’s figure appeared—he wore a black mask and hat, his face completely hidden.

But I could feel his eyes locked on me. I backed away in terror until I hit a wall—nowhere left to run.

He said nothing, just stared, then suddenly shoved the chainsaw forward and finished sawing the door open.

In despair, I raised my hands to shield myself. Do I have some grudge with you? At least let me die knowing why.

But the man stayed silent. Slowly, he raised the chainsaw, its teeth glinting coldly in the light.

He swung—

Pain exploded through me. My vision went red. I tried to scream, but the sound caught in my throat. My mind scrambled for one last memory—anything but this.

My body was split in two, agony flooding over me like a tidal wave.

Just before I lost consciousness, another string of floating comments scrolled by.

[See? Even if the girl doesn’t open the door, she still dies. The plot is set—she’s the first victim, there’s no escape.]

[Sigh, so sad. She’s really smart, but she still can’t escape death.]

[Okay, stop crying upstairs. The tough part’s over. Next comes the satisfying revenge arc with the guy.]