Chapter 2: Ghosts, Lies, and the Body That Shouldn’t Be

No time to worry about that now. I picked up my phone, checking the messages. The screen was a wall of notifications, the group chat a blur. My hands still shook, but I forced myself to focus, scrolling back to piece together what happened.

It was the residents’ group chat. The girl—Jess from 401. Her profile pic was a blurry selfie with a cat. I didn’t know her, not really—just a face I’d seen in the mailroom. But tonight, her messages had everyone on edge.

I pictured the building layout. Apartment 1 was on the far left of the hallway, across from apartment 4. Apartments 2 and 3 faced the stairs. I closed my eyes, mapping it out. My apartment was in the middle, 401 at one end, 404 at the other. The stairs just steps from my door. The mental map calmed me, just a little.

So if Jess in 401 said she saw a guy lying in blood at 403’s door, it totally checked out. The sightlines matched. She’d have a clear view from her peephole if she leaned just right. I felt a cold knot in my gut. This wasn’t some prank. The details were too sharp.

If what she said was true, then who the hell was just knocking on my door? I stared at the door, half-expecting another knock. My mind spun—imposters, killers, monsters. None of it made sense, but the fear was real.

Could there really be a monster? The word felt childish, but after tonight? I wasn’t so sure. My mind flashed to the stories Grandma used to tell about things in the dark. I shivered, shaking the thought off. No way. Right?

The group chat was buzzing with speculation. Theories everywhere—serial killer, escaped convict, prank gone wrong. Some joked about zombies, but no one was laughing. The fear was real, and it was spreading.

Problem was, the only person who could confirm anything—404—wasn’t home. His status was "Out for dinner" since 7 p.m. I remembered seeing his car missing. Was he coming back to this mess? Or was he safer wherever he was?

402 was close to 403, but Jess said something was in the stairwell. He was too scared to check. His messages were all apologies and excuses—"Sorry, guys, not leaving my place, not after what Jess said." I couldn’t blame him. No way I was stepping out, either.

Not wanting to waste time, I dialed 911. My hands shook, heart pounding in my ears, phone pressed tight to my cheek. I tried to steady my voice, rehearsing what I’d say if someone picked up.

But then something happened that made my skin crawl. All I heard was:

"We’re sorry, all circuits are busy now. Please try your call again later."

The automated voice was weirdly cheerful, which somehow made it worse. I stared at my phone, thumb hovering over redial. The world outside my apartment felt impossibly far away.

I tried again. And again. Same message every time. I’d never heard that before—not during storms, not during blackouts. My chest got tight. We were on our own.

I quickly messaged the group chat:

"Someone’s dead. Didn’t any of you call the police?" My fingers shook as I typed, my message nearly swallowed by the flood of panic. The chat moved so fast I could barely keep up.

A bunch of people replied:

"We did, but the line’s busy."

Screenshots poured in—call logs, busy signals, all the same. The sense of isolation was overwhelming. No help was coming.

Only 203 replied:

"I got through. A patrol car’s on the way."

His message stood out in the chaos. Relief flickered in my chest—finally, someone got help. I clung to that hope, even as doubt gnawed at me.

I thought about it and it made sense. Maybe too many people were calling at once, so the lines were jammed. I’d seen it happen in storms, when everyone called 911 at the same time. But this was murder. This was different. Still, I tried to believe it was just bad luck.

Everyone started talking about what Jess from 401 said:

"Is there really a monster?"

"Did you see what it looked like?"

The questions came fast. People wanted answers, but no one had them. The fear in the chat was a living thing.

Jess replied:

"I couldn’t see clearly. I was too scared."

Her words were shaky, full of regret. I pictured her curled up on the floor, peeking through the peephole, heart pounding. The building felt even smaller, the walls closing in.

People typed out sighs—"Ugh," "Man," "This is nuts." I felt the disappointment. We all wanted something concrete, something to hold onto. Instead, we got more questions.

But some people didn’t buy it. Monsters weren’t real, right? A couple skeptics chimed in, tossing around "hallucination" and "mass hysteria." Someone joked about calling the Ghostbusters. But underneath, you could tell they were scared too.

203, though, stayed grounded:

"Monster or not, someone dying is a big deal!"

"Even if it’s a killer, we need to be careful!"

His words snapped everyone back to reality. The idea of a real killer was somehow scarier than a monster. I nodded, grateful for his calm.

Then, out of nowhere, 403 messaged:

"There really is something out there!"

"Damn it, 503, you almost got me killed!"

The chat exploded. People tagged 403, demanding answers. My scalp prickled—wasn’t 403 supposed to be dead? My fingers hovered over the keyboard, not sure what to type.

My scalp tingled again. That cold, electric feeling crawled up the back of my head. If 403 was alive, who had Jess seen? My thoughts spun out.

Wasn’t 403 supposed to be dead? I scrolled back, double-checking Jess’s messages. She was so sure, so specific. My heart pounded. Something was off.

Why was he posting in the chat? My logical brain screamed for answers. Was this a joke? Did someone hack his account? I shook my head, trying to clear the confusion.

Could the person knocking on my door just now have been 503? The realization hit me hard. Maybe the voice outside wasn’t 403 at all. Maybe it was someone else, using the chaos to their advantage. My skin crawled.

The group went silent, except for 403, who kept ranting. His messages were fast, angry, scared. The rest of us just watched, too stunned to type. The tension was a living thing.

Someone tagged Jess:

"Hey, what’s really going on? Didn’t you say 403 was dead?"

The message just hung there. I pictured Jess staring at her phone, not sure what to say. The uncertainty was maddening.

403 cursed back:

"You’re the one who’s dead!"

"Screw you and your lies!"

"Are you guys trying to get me killed?"

"I’ve got nothing against any of you. Why wouldn’t you help me if there was something out there?"

His anger was raw. I could almost hear him yelling, voice rising. The chat felt like it was about to blow.

The group went quiet again. No one wanted to say the wrong thing. The silence stretched, heavy. I stared at the screen, waiting.

After a long pause, Jess finally replied:

"I... I really saw a body at 403’s door!"

She sounded hesitant, full of doubt. I felt for her—she’d been so sure, and now it was all upside down. I wanted to reach out, but what could I say?

403 calmed down a little and explained:

"That wasn’t me. I just went out because 503 had a water leak, so I went to check on him."

"That guy just stood by and watched!"

His words were clipped, defensive. I pictured him pacing, phone in a death grip. The whole building was on edge.

Then 403 started cursing at me. I winced, reading his rants. He blamed me for not opening the door, for leaving him out there. I wanted to defend myself, but it would just make things worse. Guilt gnawed at me, but I pushed it down.

It wasn’t until someone from 602 messaged that things calmed down:

"403 isn’t dead. He’s hiding at my place."

The relief in 602’s words was almost physical. For the first time all night, I felt hope. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

After that, 602 posted a photo. It showed him and 403 together, with a laptop in the background displaying the time. The timestamp was clear—no way to fake it. The two of them looked rattled but alive, huddled together in a cramped kitchen. I let out a shaky breath. My shoulders dropped.

Only then did I relax and start apologizing to 403:

"Sorry, man."

"I heard what Jess said and thought maybe a killer was pretending to be you. No way I was opening the door."

My fingers hovered over send, debating if I should add more. In the end, I kept it short. No need to stir the pot.

403 wasn’t petty and forgave me right away. That surprised me. He replied with a shrug emoji and a quick, "No worries. I’d have done the same." The chat eased a little. Maybe we weren’t totally screwed after all.

Everyone started discussing the thing in the hallway again. The chat picked up speed, questions flying. People wanted to know what 403 had seen, what really happened. The fear was still there, but now it was mixed with curiosity.

A bunch of people tagged 403:

"Dude, what did you see?"

"What exactly happened?"

The messages came rapid-fire. I found myself leaning forward, heart pounding, waiting for his reply.