The shrill ring of the phone shattered the silence of the night, its sound cutting through the thick, oppressive darkness that filled Sarah's small apartment. The clock on her nightstand blinked 2:47 a.m., the glowing red numbers casting a dull light across her room. She sat up, her heart pounding, the echo of the ring still reverberating in her ears. Who would call at this hour? The world outside was still, as if holding its breath, the usual city noises swallowed by an eerie quiet.She reached for her phone, her fingers trembling slightly, and hesitated before answering. The screen displayed a number she hadn’t seen in over a year—a number she had deleted, buried, hoping to forget. Her grandmother’s number. Her grandmother, who had been dead for thirteen months.
A chill crept over her skin, raising goosebumps, a coldness that seeped into her bones. She pressed the answer button, her voice catching in her throat as she whispered, “Hello?”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a faint crackle, static growing louder, and beneath it, the unmistakable sound of her grandmother’s voice. “Sarah…” the voice was distant, wavering, like it was being carried on a breeze from the other side. “Sarah, you have to run. They’re coming.”
Sarah's breath caught in her chest, her eyes widening. The voice was unmistakably her grandmother's, soft yet firm, the way she used to speak when she was warning Sarah about something. But her grandmother was gone—she had been there when she took her last breath, had watched as her body turned cold, as her eyes glazed over, lifeless.
“What…what do you mean?” Sarah’s voice was barely a whisper, her throat tightening, fear constricting her lungs.
“You have to run,” her grandmother’s voice repeated, more urgent this time. “They’re coming, Sarah. Run, now.”Then she heard it—the sound that made her blood run cold, that turned her fear into something much darker, much more visceral. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, approaching from the hallway. The sound was faint at first, a soft thud on the hardwood floor, but it grew louder, closer, each step echoing through the silence of the apartment.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, her body frozen, the phone slipping from her fingers. It hit the floor with a dull thud, the screen lighting up for a brief moment before fading back into darkness. The footsteps were closer now, just outside her bedroom door, a slow, deliberate pace that seemed to mock her fear.
She could feel the air around her grow thick, suffocating, the stench of something metallic filling her nose—like rust, or blood, thick and pungent. She gagged, her stomach twisting, bile rising in her throat. The sound of the footsteps stopped, replaced by a new sound—scratching. Fingernails, or claws, scraping against the wood of her door, slow and deliberate, the noise grating against her ears.
Sarah's eyes darted to the door, the handle rattling as if something on the other side was testing it, teasing her. A slow, shuddering breath escaped her lips, and she backed away, her feet stumbling on the carpet, her body moving instinctively toward the window. She could feel her pulse pounding in her temples, her entire body trembling, her skin cold and clammy.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
The door began to creak open, the wood groaning in protest, and she caught a glimpse of something—something dark, something covered in slick, glistening red, something that shouldn’t be. The metallic stench grew stronger, filling her mouth, choking her, and she saw it. A hand, skin flayed open, bloody tendons exposed, fingers curled unnaturally, pushing the door wide open.
A figure followed. Its face was hidden, shrouded in darkness, but the rest of it—its skin was torn, shredded, like something had ripped it apart and put it back together, pieces hanging loosely, dripping. The hallway behind it was dark, the shadows shifting, writhing, like they were alive.
A low, guttural noise escaped the figure, a sound that turned her fear into raw, unfiltered terror. It took a step into the room, the floorboards creaking beneath its weight, a wet, squelching noise accompanying its movement, the blood dripping from its exposed muscles staining the wood.
Sarah’s fingers found the latch of the window, fumbling desperately as she tried to push it open. The air outside was freezing, the cold wind biting into her skin, but she didn’t care. She needed to get out, needed to escape, needed to run. The figure took another step, its head tilting, the darkness around its face shifting, and she saw it—a mouth, split open, teeth too many, too sharp, a smile that stretched too wide.
The window finally gave way, the icy wind rushing in, and she threw herself out, her body hitting the fire escape with a jarring thud. Pain shot through her side, but she ignored it, scrambling to her feet, her bare feet slipping on the slick, wet metal. She could hear the thing inside her apartment, hear its wet, shuffling steps, hear the scraping of its nails against the walls as it followed her, relentless.
She ran. Down the fire escape, the cold metal biting into her feet, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. The world around her was dark, the alley below empty, desolate, the only sound her own ragged breathing, the only light the pale glow of the streetlamp at the end of the alley.
She hit the ground running, her feet splashing through puddles, the cold water soaking into her skin, the wind whipping at her face. She didn’t dare look back, didn’t dare slow down. The sound of footsteps, wet and heavy, echoed behind her, the scraping of claws against concrete, the low, guttural noise growing louder, closer.
The street stretched ahead of her, endless, the shadows closing in, and she knew—deep down in her bones—that no matter how fast she ran, no matter how far she went, she could never escape. The footsteps would always follow, the shadow always behind her, the voice of her grandmother, echoing in her ears, telling her to run.
But there was nowhere left to go.