Chapter 4: Hunted

"Mr. Dawson, my pipes are acting up again—leaking like crazy. Did you hear it?" Savannah stepped forward, her eyes flicking past me, scanning my apartment. I blocked her view with my body, panic surging—my monitor was still on, the blue glow unmistakable. If she saw it, I was toast.

"No, sorry, I went to bed early. I’ll call maintenance first thing tomorrow." I tried to keep my voice steady, but my mind was racing. I noticed a red smear on Savannah’s neck—fresh, raw, like she’d just wiped away blood. My gaze darted between the mark and her face, trying not to betray my fear.

"I can call a plumber myself, no need to trouble you." Savannah’s tone was unreadable, her eyes sharp.

"Mr. Dawson, you don’t change before bed?" Her gaze dropped to my clothes—jeans and a wrinkled shirt, hardly pajamas.

My heart stuttered. I looked down, realizing how out of place I must seem.

"Oh, I was dead tired. Just crashed, I guess," I stammered, forcing a weak laugh. My hand on the door was so tight my knuckles ached.

Savannah let it drop. "It’s late, Mr. Dawson. You should get some rest."

"Yeah, you too," I managed, giving her a half-hearted smile before shutting the door, practically stumbling backward in relief.

On the surveillance feed by the door, Savannah didn’t budge.

She wiped her neck with her hand—her palm came away smeared with vivid red blood.

The hallway’s motion sensor light flickered out, plunging everything into darkness that seemed to seep under my door like a cold tide.

In the pitch-black hallway, Savannah lingered, her silhouette motionless except for the slow, unsettling curl of her lips—a smile that would keep me up at night.

04

When I woke up the next morning, Savannah was already gone—off to work, her apartment quiet as a tomb.

I couldn’t remember how I’d managed to fall asleep. Only that I’d watched her stand outside my door for what felt like hours before finally leaving.

I’d seen her walk back into her own place. Only then did I dare move, realizing my entire body was locked up, muscles stiff with fear.

I still couldn’t wrap my head around it—the gentle, bookish girl next door was a killer. A real one.

"Should I call 911?" I muttered, pacing a rut into my cheap carpet.

No! Not yet. What if I was wrong? What if this was some wild misunderstanding?