Dark Alley Chapter 3 The Haunting Knock

　　Darkness swallowed the neighborhood by the time the cruiser dropped Mia off outside her brick apartment building. She glanced over her shoulder at the retreating police vehicle, a strange, haunting smile tugging at her lips beneath the silver glow of the half-moon.

　　The stairwell was pitch black, cold unease prickling every inch of her skin as she climbed to the second-floor unit. She unlocked her front door, flipped on the harsh overhead lamp, and collapsed onto the couch, drained to her bones. She washed her feet and slipped beneath the thin bed covers, only for a violent thunderclap to rattle the window frames. Lightning split the sky wide open, and torrential rain hammered against the glass in an unrelenting downpour.

　　Thick mist blurred the windowpanes. She switched off the lamp and burrowed deeper into her blankets, only to catch the slow, dragging sound of footsteps ascending the stairs from the ground floor. Each step moved with dreadful slowness, echoing eerily through the empty concrete stairwell.

　　Mia clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her breathing, her mind replaying a reckless promise Ethan had whispered weeks before: If I die first, I'll love you as a ghost—and I'll never let you slip away. A wave of ice-cold dread washed over her, every nerve screaming in terror. Could it be his spirit, come to haunt her? She forced the irrational thought away, telling herself it must only be a sleepwalking neighbor.

　　The footsteps drew closer, floor by floor, until they halted directly outside her front door.

　　Thunder boomed nonstop outside, wind whipping tree branches hard against the building's siding. Then came three slow, dull knocks. A pause. Three more knocks. Again, three soft, muffled taps—over and over, without end. The sound wasn't the sharp rap of human knuckles; it was dull, squishy, as if something damp and malleable struck the wooden door.

　　She refused to unlock the door, yet the knocks persisted without mercy. Eventually the rain died down, the lightning and thunder faded to total silence, yet the steady three-tap pattern never ceased. Shaking uncontrollably beneath her sheets, Mia scrambled into the kitchen, grabbed a heavy carving cleaver, and threw the deadbolt open in one frantic, impulsive motion.

　　The stairwell stood empty, no shadow, no figure, no trace of anyone at all.

　　She slammed the door shut and dove back into bed. Minutes later, a high, grating metal creak cut through the quiet. A blinding white light flooded through her bedroom window, searing her eyes.

　　Mia twisted toward the glass and let out a piercing scream. A pale, gaunt face pressed flat against the outside pane, jagged yellowed teeth bared in a hideous, stretched grin, matted dark hair tangled with sharp, jagged shards of broken metal. Their eyes locked, and the ghastly figure cackled—a harsh, guttural croak that curdled her blood.

　　The cleaver slipped from her grasp, clattering hard to the floor. The wooden handle jammed brutally into her toe, sending a sharp bolt of pain shooting up her foot. Gritting her teeth through the ache, she stumbled to the window and threw it wide open.

　　Outside stretched nothing but two massive old banyan trees and rain-soaked overgrown grass fading into the dark distance. No ghost, no pale face, no twisted figure. Had the endless knocks, the phantom, the terrible cackle all been a product of her frayed, guilt-addled mind?

　　She lay awake, trembling through the long night, until the faint gray glow of dawn finally spilled over the rooftop. The killer still lurked somewhere unseen—and Mia could feel their eyes on her, watching, waiting.