Chapter 2: Footsteps in the Dark

Half-awake, half-asleep, I suddenly heard footsteps.

The sound was soft at first, barely more than a whisper. Then it grew louder, more insistent. My heart thudded in my chest, dragging me back to full awareness.

Ben’s back?

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Maybe he’d come in while I was dozing, trying to sneak past me. I listened, holding my breath.

But something felt off right away.

The footsteps didn’t sound right—too slow, too deliberate. They echoed in places where there shouldn’t be any echo, like someone walking through water. My skin prickled.

A chill ran down my spine—the footsteps were coming from inside the apartment…

I froze, every muscle tensed. The sound was close—too close. I scanned the room, eyes darting to every shadow, every corner.

"Ben?"

I called out, testing. My voice sounded small, swallowed by the silence. No answer, just the steady thump of footsteps that didn’t belong to me.

I dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a steak knife.

My hands shook as I pulled open the drawer, fingers closing around the handle. The metal felt cold, reassuring. I crept back into the living room, every sense on high alert.

Could it be a burglar?

I tried to steady my breathing, running through all the ways this could be nothing—a neighbor, a creaky pipe, a trick of the mind. But the footsteps kept coming. My nerves jangled.

Knife in hand, I searched the whole apartment but found nothing. I even checked the closet and under the bed—still empty.

I flipped on every light, checked behind every door. The shadows jumped, but nothing moved. The apartment was empty—completely, utterly empty.

But when I looked at the TV, I froze.

The screen was no longer showing the sitcom. Instead, it flickered with black-and-white footage—the building’s security feed. My own back filled the frame, moving in real time. My breath caught in my throat.

I stared, heart hammering. The camera angle was impossible—like someone was watching me from inside the apartment. I swallowed hard, sweat prickling at my hairline.

I saw my own back on the screen.

I watched myself move, every gesture mirrored on the TV. It was surreal, like being split in two. My mind raced for an explanation.

When I turned around, my face appeared on the TV.

My own eyes stared back at me, wide and afraid. I reached for the remote, but the image stayed, stubborn and unblinking. My skin crawled.

My face twisted in shock, my stomach flipping.

None of this made sense. My hands trembled as I set the knife down, trying to piece together what I was seeing. The room felt colder, the air sharp against my skin.

"What the hell is this? Why did Ben install something like this in here?"

I spoke aloud, as if the empty apartment could answer. The words hung in the air, unanswered. My voice shook.

I felt around the wall and sure enough, found a pinhole camera.

My fingers brushed against a tiny lens, barely visible in the corner. I pried it loose, heart pounding. Who had put this here? And why?

I found the matching memory card and checked the footage.

I slid the card into my laptop, scrolling through file after file. The thumbnails showed groups of people, cards spread across the table, bottles and snacks scattered everywhere.

It was all videos of them playing cards—probably installed by Ben to catch cheaters during games.

I watched a few clips, recognizing Ben’s friends—Eddie, with his big laugh, and Sam, always wearing that ratty Yankees cap. They joked and argued, accusing each other of bluffing. It was all so normal.

But the later files were corrupted. The latest I could view was from the fifth of last month.

The videos after that were just static, lines of code and digital snow. I tried to recover them, but nothing worked. My frustration grew.

I was disappointed. I’d hoped to catch Ben doing something illegal on camera.

Instead, all I got was a bunch of poker nights and half-finished beers. No evidence, no answers. Just more questions.

After that scare, I wasn’t sleepy at all. I checked the time—already midnight.

The digital clock blinked 12:00, casting a pale glow across the room. I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion warring with adrenaline.

And Ben still hadn’t come back?

I glanced at the door, half expecting it to swing open. But there was nothing—just the slow tick of the clock and the hum of the fridge.

Maybe he really hadn’t done anything wrong after all.

I tried to reassure myself, but the uneasy feeling lingered. I paced the room, restless, my nerves buzzing.