He was out there. I knew it. This wasn't some figment of my imagination. He was going to try and get in. I could feel it.

The air was thick, suffocating, pressing down on me like a weight I couldn't shake. My breaths were shallow and uneven as I pressed my back against the wardrobe, trying to steady myself. Keep calm. Keep quiet.

There was no sound outside my room, but the image of the hooded figure standing in the garden wouldn't leave me. That shadow—no face, no features—just the unbearable sensation of being watched. Even with my eyes closed, his presence lingered, etched into my mind like a scar that wouldn't heal.

A creak from somewhere downstairs made me flinch. My fingers tightened around the edge of the wardrobe, the cool wood grounding me. The house was old; it always made sounds. But this creak felt different. Deliberate. Purposeful. Like someone testing the silence.

And then it happened.

The sound of breaking glass shattered the stillness.

Sharp and violent, it echoed through the house, scattering shards of silence like a shotgun blast. My heart dropped, plummeting to the pit of my stomach. The noise reverberated in my ears, blending with the frantic pounding of my pulse.

My chest tightened, and I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. The room felt smaller, the shadows darker, closing in from every side. I pressed myself lower against the wardrobe, my legs trembling beneath me. Sweat dripped down my temple, cold and slick, but I didn't dare wipe it away. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to move, to act—but I was frozen.

Another sound cut through the air—a soft scrape, almost imperceptible, like a shoe sliding across the wooden floor downstairs. My skin prickled with dread. He wasn't rushing. He was taking his time.

My breaths came quicker, harder, and I felt like I was drowning in fear. I gripped the edge of the wardrobe tighter, the smooth surface biting into my palms. My thoughts were scattered, jagged, slipping through my mind like fragments of broken glass.

Move, Sam. Move.

I inched toward the edge of the wardrobe, peeking over it. My limbs shook with the effort. The hallway outside my room was bathed in faint moonlight, the shadows stretching unnaturally along the floor. My ears strained for another sound, anything to confirm where he was—but all I could hear was my heartbeat, thunderous and erratic.

Then it came—another creak. A single step. Closer this time. The weight of unseen eyes pressed against me, heavy and relentless.

I gripped the scissors tighter, the cold metal biting into my palm. The sting grounded me, but only for a second. My heartbeat was too fast, too loud, too chaotic. I didn't have much time.

I scanned the room, desperate. Where could I go? Where could I hide?

My gaze landed on the wardrobe. If I could get on top... maybe...

My body trembled as I climbed onto the desk, my legs barely able to hold me up my palms clammy. Move. Just move. The wood creaked beneath me, and I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Did he hear that?

I forced myself to keep going, my hands shaking as I pulled myself onto the top of the wardrobe. It was cramped, dusty. The air was thick with stale heat, each breath sticking in my throat. I pressed myself against the wall, trying to disappear.

But I could still hear him.

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Heavy.

Each step felt calculated, searching. The sound of his shoes against the floorboards sent a cold wave of dread through me, crawling along my spine. The house felt alive, holding its breath, pulsing with his movements. He was looking for me.

Did he know I was here?

Each step feels calculated, searching. The sound of his shoes against the floorboards sends a cold wave of dread through me, crawling along my spine. The house feels alive, holding its breath, pulsing with his movements. He's looking for me.

Does he know I'm here?

My breaths are shallow, suffocated gasps. I try to silence them, pressing my hand tighter against my mouth, but the panic claws at me, relentless. My chest feels like it's caving in, the air too thick to draw a full breath. I can't think. I can't breathe.

The room shrinks around me, the walls pressing closer, suffocating me in their grip. The shadows stretch and shift in the corners of my vision, alive with the weight of my fear. I need air. I need to move. But I can't make a sound.

Another crash—louder this time. Glass? Wood? I can't tell. The noise jolts through me, sharp as a knife. My body trembles violently, the sound reverberating in my ears as if it came from inside me.

The footsteps change. Faster now. Frantic. No longer measured and controlled—they're urgent. Impatient.

I squeeze my eyes shut, every muscle in my body taut. My lips form the words silently, a desperate plea.

Please leave. Please.

I try to press myself tighter into the gap between the wardrobe and the wall, but there's no more room. I'm exposed. I'm out in the open.

The door is locked. That's my only protection. The flimsy lock... Will it even hold?

I'm trapped.

The footsteps stop outside my door.

My body tenses, every muscle ready to snap. Please, go away. Please.

The doorknob turns slowly. The metallic scrape echoes in the suffocating silence, each sound a cruel taunt. The lock stops it, but barely.

He's there. Right there.

The air felt thick and suffocating. My lungs burned, but I couldn't make a sound. I couldn't let him hear me.

I heard him breathe. It was steady, almost too calm—a sharp inhale, a slow exhale. He was listening, just like me.

The silence between us was unbearable, every second stretching out endlessly. What was he waiting for?

And then, a phone rang.

It wasn't mine. It was his.

"Yeah, I'm here," he said, his voice low, gravelly, sending a chill down my spine. The deep timbre of it felt like it scraped against my skin, leaving a trail of ice. "No, I'm not sure."

My stomach twisted painfully. That voice... it was familiar. I'd heard it before, but the fog of fear clouded my mind. Where? Was it at school? At the party? Someone I'd passed on the street? My thoughts spun wildly, like I was grasping at threads that refused to hold.

I felt sick. The familiarity was gnawing at me, pulling me into a deeper spiral of panic. Why couldn't I place it? Brief flashes of memory teased me—a vague laugh at the party, a voice overheard in the halls at school—but nothing stuck. Nothing fit.

He paused, listening to the person on the other end. The silence stretched, each passing second tightening the noose around me. Then, his tone shifted, hardening like stone. "No, I said no! We stick to the plan."

The sharpness of his words made me flinch. There was anger in his voice now, a cold, controlled rage that felt more terrifying than any outburst. He was frustrated. And that was worse. Much worse.

What plan? What could they possibly mean? Was it about me? Was I part of it somehow? My thoughts spiralled out of control, feeding my panic as the words looped endlessly in my mind.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, my breaths coming in shallow gasps against my palm. My pulse thudded in my ears, drowning out the faint sounds of the house. My chest tightened with the oppressive weight of the moment. I couldn't think. Couldn't move.

The call ended abruptly, the sharp click echoing in the quiet. I heard him turn, his footsteps fading down the hall. Slower now. Deliberate. He was leaving.

But the dread didn't fade. It clung to me, thick and heavy, wrapping itself around my chest like a vice. He'd come back. I knew he would.

I stayed frozen, my body paralysed by fear. Don't move. Don't breathe.

But I couldn't stay here. Not like this. My fingers trembled as I released my grip on the wardrobe. I shifted slightly, my body stiff from being pressed against the wall. My legs ached, my knees weak and unsteady.

The shadows in the room seemed to shift as my breathing steadied, but my mind remained trapped in the echo of his voice. Familiar. Wrong. The gravelly tone lingered, twisting into every thought. Had I passed him in the halls at school? Heard him laugh at a joke at the party? A fragment of memory teased me, just out of reach, mocking me with its elusiveness.

What was the plan?

My limbs felt numb as I slid off the top of the wardrobe, the scissors still clutched in my hand. My legs buckled slightly as they hit the floor, but I managed to stand. I had to move. My phone was tucked into my bra, but I couldn't use it. Not yet.

I crept towards the door, every movement painfully slow.

And then... footsteps.

Again.

But they were different. Heavier this time.

Someone else was in the house.

"Sam? Sam, are you there?"

Mr. Turner. His voice was unmistakable. But why... why was he here?

I should've felt relieved, but my body didn't respond. Why didn't it feel right?

My heart pounded louder in my chest. What was he doing here? Was he here to help me? Or—

Why now?

"Sam? If you're here, please answer me." His voice was closer now, softer, almost coaxing. Too soft.

I felt a knot twist in my stomach.

Why was he here!

The thought spiralled out of control, feeding on my fear, twisting every logical thought into something darker. Am I overreacting? Or am I right to be afraid?

"Is he gone?" My voice was barely a whisper, my throat dry. My hand stayed on the lock, but I didn't open the door. I couldn't.

There was a pause. "Who? What's going on?" The doorknob turned, but the lock held again. "Sam?"

Something inside me screamed not to open the door.

"Open the door, Sam," he said, his voice controlled, calm. But the door rattled in its frame as he tried again. The lock kept it shut.

"Could you call the police?" I asked, my voice trembling.

Something was wrong.

But was I imagining it? Was my fear warping everything, twisting it into something sinister? Isn't it?

"Someone broke in," I managed to say, my voice shaking. "I think he's still here."

I glanced at the gap beneath the door, watching as the shadow of his feet moved back.

"Stay here. I'll check." His tone was calm. Too calm. His composure was too smooth, too steady. Too certain.

I listened as his heavy steps thudded down the hall. He was too calm for what was happening.

And there was a voice inside me, growing louder, screaming not to open the door.

A few moments later, his footsteps returned.

"Nobody's here." He laughed awkwardly. "The room down the hall is trashed, and the window's broken. There's blood on the sill."

Suddenly, I heard footsteps outside the house—running footsteps. My breath hitched, and my grip on the scissors tightened. I held my breath, frozen in place.

"Miss Calloway!" a firm, authoritative voice called from downstairs. "It's DCI Campbell!"

Relief coursed through me, but it was fragile, hanging by a thread. I had completely forgotten she was coming.

"Sam, the front door was open," she called again, her voice sharp, professional, cutting through the tense silence like a blade. "Where are you?"

"I'm upstairs," I croaked, barely loud enough to be heard.

"Stay where you are," she said, the sound of her measured steps moving up the staircase. "We'll check everything first."

I heard her conferring with someone, her voice suddenly sharp. "And you are?"

"Mr. Turner. I'm her teacher," he said smoothly.

There was a pause, then DCI Campbell's voice again, tighter this time. "Why are you here?"

I couldn't hear his response clearly, just a murmur of words—his tone even, almost casual. Then her voice again, lower, but still sharp. I strained to hear, but their conversation was just out of reach, a low exchange that made my stomach churn.

"Sam, are you all right in there?" DCI Campbell's voice rose slightly, breaking through the tension.

"Yes," I called out, clutching the scissors tighter.

I heard the heavy steps of another officer ascending the stairs, joining Campbell. A few moments later, her calm yet firm voice came again, closer now. "It's all clear. You can open the door."

I hesitated, my hand hovering over the lock. I glanced at the shadow under the door—it was still there, unmoving. Was it safe?

"Miss Calloway," she said, her tone softer now, "you're safe."

Slowly, I unlocked the door and opened it. DCI Campbell stood there, her gaze steady but assessing. Behind her, Mr. Turner hovered in the shadows of the hallway, his expression unreadable.