After I moved into the new apartment, I always felt like someone was watching me. It wasn't until I saw a man with binoculars in the window across the street that I finally understood. A primal terror seized me. I stormed over there to confront him, but he just smiled a sickening, entitled grin. "You're showering with the blinds open—don't tell me you weren't asking for it?" he sneered. "Maybe you wanted me to notice you, huh?" "Besides," he continued, the smirk widening into a leer, "I had this place first. You chose to rent here, right across the street from me. You're playing coy, but you've got a crush. Come on, sweetie, you liked being watched." Enraged and disgusted, I fought him. In the struggle, he pulled a knife and stabbed me repeatedly. When I opened my eyes, the cold shock of the blade was gone, and I was back on the day I first discovered I was being watched. 1 The fluorescent light in my bathroom made me squint, but the phantom coldness of the knife still clung to my skin. It wasn't a dream. I was back. According to the last timeline, I would turn my head any second now and lock eyes with that man—Kevin—holding the binoculars across the alley. My heart hammered against my ribs, and a cold sweat instantly soaked through my shirt. No. Not this time. I couldn't confront him. He was a psychopath. If he knew I'd found him out, he would attack me just as he did before. I couldn't panic. Panic was what killed me. I forced myself to be calm and stepped out of the bathroom, carefully avoiding looking toward the window opposite. Once I was in the visual dead zone of the apartment, I grabbed my phone, hands shaking, and called the police. After hanging up, I quickly texted my closest friends and my mom. Their responses were immediate and frantic. "Honey, don't you dare move! Lock all the doors. Mom's on her way!" "Harper, stay on video call with me, sweetie, I'll keep you company. Don't let me hang up." A knot tightened in my chest. I couldn't let them get involved. He knew this building. Who knew what he might do if he ran into them? "The police will be here fast," I replied. "If you rush over now, you'll just be panicking. And if he's downstairs and you bump into him... it'll be more dangerous." After assuring them I was safe and everything was locked, I went through the entire apartment, double-checking every window latch and deadbolt. Even after all that, I still felt that awful, prickly sensation—the feeling of eyes glued to me. The discomfort of being watched wrapped around my chest like suffocating vines. I didn't dare sit down. I huddled in the corner by the front door, staring fixedly at the peephole. I have no idea how long I waited. My phone screen kept lighting up with texts from my mom and my best friend, Maya, asking if the police had arrived yet. I kept replying not yet, and my impatience grew into a sickening dread. I couldn't help it. I lifted my gaze toward the building across the way. My heart lurched. Kevin and his binoculars were gone. He wasn't there? I blinked, then stared, confirming the window was empty. There was no silhouette, no figure. Did I make too much noise calling the police? Did he spot me? Or was he off doing something else? A dozen terrifying scenarios flooded my mind, but one small, cowardly thought brought a sliver of relief: As long as he wasn't staring at me from over there, I could breathe. I leaned back against the wall, my tense muscles easing fractionally. Just a little longer, and the police would be here. I would be safe. Knock. Knock. Knock. The sound, sudden and sharp, echoed through the quiet apartment. My heart leaped into my throat, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The police? Already? I crept to the door and pressed my eye to the peephole. The moment my vision focused, my body seized up. It wasn't the police. It was him. Kevin. "Come on out, sweetie. I know you're in there." His voice was muffled, but its oily undertone slithered right through the door. "You thought calling the cops would stop me?" "Too bad for you. I got here first." The blood drained from my face. How did he know? Then I remembered his delusional rambling from the last timeline. He had rented this place before. He had been casing it. He was watching me—every move I made was under his surveillance. His voice, thick and repulsive, came through the door again. "I knew you were different from the others. You chose my old apartment. You feel something for me, right?" That sickening, twisted logic. My stomach churned, and I fought the urge to vomit. He started rambling, a horrifying domestic fantasy. "I know, you're just too shy to admit it. There's nothing shameful about having a crush on me." "I've got it all planned out. Once we're together, we'll redecorate this place. Get a big sectional sofa in the living room, and we can curl up and watch Netflix together every night." Goosebumps prickled my entire body, but I knew I couldn't let my fear show. I had to play along. I had to buy time for the police to arrive. "That sounds... that sounds nice," I managed, keeping my voice shaky but soft. "Actually, I've always thought you seemed... kind of sweet. I just didn't know how to talk to you." He took the bait. His voice instantly became excited and possessive. "I knew you liked me!" I pressed on. "Maybe... maybe we could start talking. See where it goes." He immediately agreed. Feeling that his erratic emotional state had stabilized slightly, I let out a minuscule breath of relief. Just a little longer. The police had to be close. That's when I heard a sound that froze the breath in my lungs. Shk-ting. The slick, unmistakable sound of metal sliding against a sheath. A knife being drawn. His tone instantly curdled, the earlier obsession replaced by a cold, murderous fury. "But... you called the cops. Why did you call the cops? Are you playing me for a fool?" My heart leaped back into my throat. "I was just so scared! I panicked and made a mistake! I'm calling them right now to say everything is fine!" He slammed his body against the door. "Too late! Calling the police is a betrayal! You're a liar! I'm going to kill you!" The door panel groaned and shuddered under the force of the impact. I scrambled backward. With a sickening CRACK, the deadbolt gave way. He burst through the doorway, knife raised, his face a mask of contorted rage. "Die, you backstabbing little cheat!" I snatched a chair and shoved it up, blocking his attack. CLANG! The blade bit into the chair leg, sending splinters flying. I used the distraction to retreat, my mind screaming with the memory of the last time, the knife tearing into my abdomen. "The police are here! Stop right now, or you'll be too late!" He didn't listen. He raised the knife again and lunged. I dodged desperately, scrambling over furniture, the apartment descending into chaos. Just as my strength was about to give out, I heard the sound of a siren and a bullhorn outside. "Police! Inside! Drop your weapon immediately!" Kevin froze. His movement was a split-second pause, but it was all I needed. I shoved the broken chair at him with all my strength, and he stumbled backward, momentarily disoriented. The police officers—two men and a woman—swarmed through the broken doorway. Within seconds, they had him pinned to the floor, the knife kicked out of his grasp. He was still thrashing and screaming a litany of obscenities. "She's mine! Don't you touch her!" As I watched them cuff him and haul him away, the adrenaline drained out of me. My legs buckled, and I crumpled to the floor, my back slick with icy sweat. Safe. Finally safe. A wave of intense relief washed over me, and I couldn't stop the tears that poured down my face. I thought it was over. But one week later, I was sitting on my living room sofa, trying to relax and watch TV, when that familiar, crawling sensation of being watched returned. Just then, my phone rang. It was Detective Miller from the precinct. "Ms. Harper, the suspect who harassed you... Kevin..." His voice was low and serious. "He attempted suicide during transport to the correctional facility's health wing. He escaped while we were taking him to the hospital." "We're mobilizing all units for a full manhunt," he continued. "You need to be extremely vigilant. Do not leave your apartment alone. Lock everything down. Call us instantly if anything happens." I stood paralyzed, the receiver pressed to my ear. That's why the feeling was back. Rigidly, I turned my head and looked across the street. The window where Kevin had once stood with his binoculars was dark, but now, a soft, solitary light was on. Oh God. He was back. He had come for me. I slammed the phone down and immediately redialed the police. "Detective Miller! He's back! He's in the building across the street! The light is on in that apartment!" After hanging up, my mind filled with the vivid image of Kevin bursting through my door with the knife. I have to lock it down harder. I went through the apartment again, checking the locks, then pulling a heavy shoe rack in front of the front door as a barricade. I went to the windows and drew the curtains tight, making sure there wasn't a single crack of light visible. But the feeling didn't fade. It grew stronger, as if a hundred unseen eyes were boring into me from every corner of the room. I couldn't sit, couldn't stand still. I paced the length of the living room, back and forth, trying to burn off the panic. I don't know how long I walked. Eventually, I realized I desperately needed to use the bathroom. I crept toward the door, paranoid of making any noise. Afterward, I turned on the faucet to wash my hands. The cold water against my skin sent a shiver through me. I looked up into the mirror. The woman staring back was pale, her eyes wide and rimmed with fear. She looked utterly pathetic. Staring at that terrified reflection, a terrifying thought flickered through my mind. For a split second, I had the bizarre, terrifying impression that the person in the mirror wasn't me at all. It was Kevin. He was right there, staring out with that same cold, possessive, obsessed look he'd given me the moment before he stabbed me last time. I clutched my chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. It's a hallucination. Just my mind playing tricks. I repeated the mantra over and over, but my body wouldn't stop trembling. Then, a knock on the front door. "Ms. Harper, this is the police. Are you home?" The sound jolted me out of my paralyzing fear. The police! I rushed to the door and peered through the peephole. Two uniformed officers were standing outside. Relief flooded me, and I quickly unbolted the door. "Officers! Was he... was he caught?" I asked desperately, glancing down the hall, terrified Kevin might appear at any second. The officer shook his head, his expression grim. "Ms. Harper, we checked the unit across the street. The one you pointed out? There's no one in there." I stared at him, my mind spinning. "But... but that's impossible! I saw the light on just now!" "We went in and conducted a thorough search. It's empty." The other officer spoke up. "We spoke to the building manager. They reported a break-in earlier. A petty thief likely turned the lights on when they were rummaging. We've apprehended the thief." My mouth fell open, but the terror inside me refused to subside. It intensified. "Then... where is he? The man who escaped? Where did he go?" The lead officer's voice became stern. "We are still looking. He has not been located yet." "We have patrol units covering the perimeter of the complex, but you must be careful. Do not go out alone." After the police left, my mind was a mess. I glanced toward the dark window across the street, sure that a pair of unseen eyes were watching me from behind the drawn curtain. Where was he? Was he hiding somewhere, still observing me? Another week crawled by. Kevin's wanted poster was shared in our condo's group chat and on every social media platform. But the police, the neighbors, and the building security all had nothing. He had simply vanished. My life was a constant state of hyper-vigilance. I never left the apartment. The windows and door locks were never opened. Not even during the day could I pull back the curtains. I felt that if I exposed even the slightest crack, a pair of eyes would immediately seize on it from the shadows. Every corner of the apartment felt saturated with his presence. The feeling of being watched never truly went away. To make matters worse, I started hearing strange noises at night—a faint, intermittent sound coming from deep inside the apartment. Terrified, I would huddle under the covers, barely breathing. But whenever I finally gathered the courage to investigate, I'd find nothing. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I called Maya and begged her to come stay with me. Maya walked through the apartment with me several times, but she didn't hear anything. I clutched her hand tightly. "I swear I'm not making it up. Every night, there's this weird noise. I think... I think he might be hiding in the walls of this apartment." Maya squeezed my hand and sighed. "You've developed PTSD, sweetie. Look at these locks. The windows. How could he possibly get in here? Besides, the police are looking for him. If he were here, they'd have found him." I was about to argue when she suddenly wrinkled her nose. "What is that smell? It's gross. Like... like something rotting. A dead mouse, maybe?" I paused, inhaling deeply, but I didn't smell anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps I was just used to the stale air in the apartment. "I don't smell anything," I told her. Maya tugged me toward the bathroom. "I definitely do. You've been cooped up here too long. You should do a deep clean. Even if it's a dead mouse, that's unsanitary. You'll get sick." She was right. Dead mouse or not, a deep clean would help settle my nerves. After Maya left, I started scrubbing every surface. After half a day of work, the air quality improved noticeably, and the oppressive, heavy feeling in the apartment seemed to lift slightly. But when I stepped into the bathroom, the stench Maya had mentioned hit me full force. I covered my nose and surveyed the room. The floor, sink, and toilet were spotless. No mouse corpse. I followed the smell, and to my horror, I realized the odor was strongest near the mirror. The closer I got, the more acrid and suffocating it became. Frowning, I reached out to wipe the mirror. But the moment my hand made contact, I froze. Instead of the usual smooth, cold glass, the mirror was slick and tacky. It felt greasy and slimy, making my skin crawl. I quickly withdrew my hand and looked down. It was covered in a pale, yellowish, viscous film. That's where the worst of the smell was coming from. "Ugh—" I gagged, turning to wash my hands. Just then, the sound began. Shk-shk-shk. Shk-shk-shk. The noise... it was the weird, intermittent sound I'd been hearing every night! Every hair on my body stood on end. I turned, rigid with terror, and fixed my eyes on the mirror. The sound wasn't coming from anywhere else; it was coming from inside the mirror. My pale, horrified reflection stared back at me. Nothing else. But the shk-shk-shk continued. I was shaking uncontrollably, but my feet felt nailed to the floor. I knew if I didn't find out what this was, I would never have a moment of peace again. Trembling, I found a screwdriver in my toolbox. After taking several deep, ragged breaths, I wedged the flat head into the narrow gap at the edge of the mirror frame. I pried hard, and a large section of the mirror crashed to the floor. An avalanche of foul, toxic air rushed out of the cavity, making me gasp and choke. Instinctively, I peered into the dark space behind where the mirror had been. The horror I saw in that brief moment made me scream and collapse onto the cold tile floor.
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