Chapter 4: Betrayal at the Door

Suddenly, there was a knock at my door. Could it be her?

The knock was sharp, urgent. My heart leapt into my throat.

"Autumn, is that you?"

I went to the door and called out, but whoever was outside didn’t answer—just kept knocking.

The pounding kept building, frantic, like something was chasing her.

Autumn suddenly called me. I picked up, and she was panting on the other end. "I almost died. I heard your voice note—I shut the elevator and ran back out!"

Relief crashed over me. She was okay—for now.

So the person outside wasn’t her!

A cold dread settled in my stomach. If it wasn’t Autumn, then who?

I hurried over and looked through the peephole. It was the young woman who lived across from me—Natalie.

Her lips were almost purple, and she kept glancing over her shoulder.

She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her hands trembled as she clutched her phone.

We usually saw each other a lot, and I’d always had a good impression of her.

She was the type to bring in packages for neighbors and leave little notes on the bulletin board. Seeing her like this rattled me.

She’d been chatting in the group just ten minutes ago, so why was she outside now?

Something wasn’t adding up. I pressed my ear to the door, listening for any sign of the snake.

"Help me! I left my key inside!" she suddenly shouted, pounding even harder on my door. Her cries echoed down the hallway.

My heart hammered. Her voice was raw, desperate. The sound bounced off the walls, impossible to ignore.

Her shrill voice made my chest tighten. I was just about to open the door when I heard her pleading.

I reached for the deadbolt, torn. Every instinct screamed at me to help, but something felt off.

"Don’t bite me… I’ll go find you new food…"

Her words stopped me cold. Who was she talking to?

"No!"

The scream was sharp, followed by a wet, dragging sound.

Hiss hiss. Then silence.

The silence was suffocating. I pressed my back to the door, heart hammering in my chest.

I didn’t have the guts to look through the peephole again. I could already imagine how bad it was.

My hands shook as I backed away, trying not to picture what might be on the other side.

That’s when it hit me: she wanted me to open the door—to feed me to the snake so it would let her go.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. She wasn’t looking for help—she was looking for a distraction.

If I’d opened the door just now, I don’t even want to think about what would’ve happened.

I pictured myself face-to-face with the snake, no time to react. The thought made me shudder.

I would’ve died, right in the snake’s jaws.

I swallowed hard, suddenly grateful for my paranoia.

But the snake had already attacked the delivery guy, so why was it still looking for food?

My mind raced. Was it just that hungry? Or God help us—was there more than one?

Could there be more than one snake in this building?

The idea made my skin crawl. I scanned the group chat, looking for any clue I might have missed.

I told building management what happened outside my door and asked them to check the security cameras to confirm the snake’s location.

My message was short and urgent. I tried to keep the panic out of my words, but I doubt I succeeded.

The residents were all in an uproar, urging management to catch the snake immediately.

The chat was a dumpster fire—everyone pointing fingers.

But management was powerless.

They sent a half-hearted reply, promising to "monitor the situation" and "coordinate with authorities." It didn’t inspire much confidence.

The situation was unclear, and they couldn’t send anyone in. We could only wait for animal control.

Someone joked about calling in the National Guard. I didn’t laugh.

Management replied that the snake seen on camera had suddenly disappeared without a trace.

The update sent a fresh wave of panic through the chat. If the cameras couldn’t spot it, where was it hiding?

They checked all the cameras but couldn’t find any sign of the snake.

People started speculating about hidden crawl spaces and secret passages. The theories got wilder by the minute.

Someone nervously speculated, "Has the snake turned into a monster? Can it even hide from the cameras?"

The message hung there, feeding everyone’s worst fears.

The group chat exploded with all sorts of wild theories.

Somebody brought up urban legends, another person talked about government experiments gone wrong. Paranoia was spreading faster than the snake itself.

[Is someone raising this snake? Why does it seem to know its way around every floor?]

I started to wonder the same thing. It moved too confidently, like it belonged here.

I started to suspect someone was hiding it, keeping it off the radar.

My mind flashed back to the weird smells in the hallway last week, the strange noises at night. Had it always been here?

[Isn’t 908 the one raising it—acting like a hero to cover their tracks?]

Unbelievable. Her accusation stung. I’d tried to help, and now I was the villain.

I tried to help, and now I was being accused. I decided to stay quiet.

No point arguing with people who’d already made up their minds. I muted the chat for a while, trying to calm down.

Then management sent out a picture of the shed snakeskin, asking everyone to check if their pet snake had escaped.

The photo was high-res, every scale visible. It looked even bigger up close.

At first glance, it looked like the same skin. But when I zoomed in, the pattern was completely different.

A chill ran through me. Two different snakes. Maybe more.

That confirmed my suspicion: there was more than one snake in this building.

I stared at the screen, heart pounding. How many were there? Where were they hiding?

And the snake that shed this skin was even bigger.

I felt a wave of nausea. The skin was longer, the pattern bolder. This one made the first look small.

I hesitated about whether to tell management.

I weighed my options. If I spoke up again, would they listen? Or just turn on me harder?

Then a message came in the group saying the snake had been caught.

A cheer went up in the chat. Someone posted a party emoji, others started talking about going out for coffee.

I watched the video they posted, but it was obvious that the snake in the video couldn’t possibly have shed those two massive skins.

Anyone with eyes could see it wasn’t the same snake—the size and markings didn’t match.

But now the residents started celebrating, flooding the chat with thumbs-up emojis for management and praising their efficiency.

People were quick to congratulate themselves. The mood shifted from panic to smug relief in seconds.

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.

I hovered over the keyboard, torn between warning them and keeping my head down.

After all, I still had to live here. If I called out management’s lie now, I might become their target.

The thought of being on their bad side made my skin crawl. It was easier to just disappear into the background.

More importantly, I’d just decided not to get involved anymore.

I shut my laptop, trying to convince myself it wasn’t my problem anymore.

But reason won out, and I still told them what I thought.

My message was short, almost apologetic: "That snake doesn’t match the skins. Be careful, everyone."

Management was the first to jump in, saying I was making things up and insisting they’d already caught the snake.

Their reply was swift and angry. They accused me of fear-mongering, said I was making the building look bad.

The property manager called me directly. As soon as I answered, he started yelling and threatening me.

Typical. His voice was harsh, words tumbling over each other. He said I was causing panic, and if I didn’t stop, there’d be consequences.

"You residents just make trouble for us. I’m warning you, if you want to keep living here, you’d better shut up!"

I hit record on my phone, just in case. His threats were the last straw.

I saved the file to the cloud, my hands shaking. I wasn’t about to let them pin this on me.

The group split into two camps—one believing me and urging caution, the other trusting management and getting ready to go about their business.

Hero or liar—take your pick. Arguments broke out. Some people said I was a hero, others called me a liar. It was chaos.

I reminded Autumn, telling her to hurry home and not hang around downstairs.

I sent her another dozen texts, my anxiety spiking. She had a knack for getting into trouble.

She loves to watch the drama, and I was afraid she’d get hurt if she wasn’t careful.

I pictured her with her phone out, trying to livestream the whole mess. I prayed she had enough sense to stay away.

Twenty minutes. Nothing. She hadn’t replied to any of my messages since that last emoji.

I started pacing my living room, checking my phone every thirty seconds. The silence was unbearable.