1. Esperr
ESPERR
The house is too quiet; it’s the first thing I notice when I pull my bedroom door open. It’s odd; our house was never quiet when I was a kid. There was always something: the hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the old pipes, or my parents moving downstairs long after midnight.
But right now, there’s nothing, just silence.
I stand in the hallway halfway out, my bare feet pressed into the cold wood floor.
The lights are off, but I can still see everything; I’ve grown used to the dark and everything in it.
Frowning, I peer down the long stretch of narrow walls to the staircase at the end where the basement door usually stays closed and locked.
Only it’s open and a thin line of light spills up the steps.
My chest tightens—that door wasn’t open when I went to bed.
“Hello?” My voice comes out small, swallowed by the house.
Something moves downstairs, a chair scraping, and then footsteps. They’re slow and heavy, each step echoing through the house like it’s inside my skull.
My heart starts pounding as I back up towards my room, having not realized I walked out in the first place. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to run, but my legs feel thick and sluggish.
The footsteps reach the top of the stairs, and I can’t see him, but I know he’s there.
Another step, the wood groaning beneath his weight.
I turn and run; my bedroom door slams open as I stumble inside, nearly tripping over the rug. My hands shake as I try to shove the door closed, pressing my back against it like that will somehow hold it shut.
I can’t hear anything over the rapid beating in my chest, enough so that for a moment I think maybe he left. But I know better; crawling across the floor, I slide myself into the closet, closing the door behind me.
Then I hear the door handle turning, slow and deliberate. My breath catches in my throat, and the door pushes inward even though I’m doing my best to hold it—something stronger than me is on the other side.
“Please,” I whisper, though I know he doesn’t care that I’m begging; in fact, he likes it.
I slide down, pressing my face against the hardwood so I can peek underneath. The door opens an inch and then another until there’s a shadow stretching across the floor toward me. I can’t see his face, but I know that smell.
“Come out, come out wherever you are.”
Every part of me freezes, my heart stops skipping, and air refuses to enter my lungs at the sudden realization that he’s not just chasing me.
He’s hunting me.
A scream rips from my mouth just before I wake, and for a second I don’t know where I am.
My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape my ribs, my lungs dragging in air that tastes wrong, like dust and fear. The dark presses around me, and my body is already half sitting up before my brain catches up.
I freeze and listen for any sudden sound, almost smiling when the first real thing I hear is my neighbors screaming through the wall.
The noise bleeds through the thin drywall like someone turned the volume up too high—a man’s voice, sharp and loud, but the girl’s voice fires back just as loud. It’s something about laundry and then something about the light in the hallway being left on again.
Then it’s her voice cracking, shrill and exhausted, “I can’t live like this.”
I plop onto my back, letting my eyes finally focus on the cracked ceiling while my brain catches up with reality.
It’s only my chest that heaves as the adrenaline slowly drains out of my body, leaving my muscles shaky and heavy.
For a few seconds I just lie there staring at the ceiling, waiting for my brain to catch up with reality.
The shouting next door continues, muffled but relentless, like the wall between us isn't thick enough to keep their lives out of mine.
I rub my eyes until my vision blurs, and I don't even stop there; the nightmare still clings to me.
Because even though I’m awake now, his words still echo in the back of my skull, reminding me that I’m not safe.
That I’ll never be safe.
He’s still hunting me, and the worst part is that a small part of me still knows that.
Rolling onto my side, I clutch the thin blanket tighter around me, trying to pretend I didn’t sleep like crap again. My pillow is still damp from where I drooled, or maybe it was from crying. Honestly, at this point it could be either.
I blow out a breath and tap the screen on my cracked phone, 3:58 AM.
Two minutes before my alarm.
Figures, I’ve only gotten home a few hours ago. The bar ran late last night, and by the time I closed out my drawer and walked home, it was well past midnight. Working at the coffee shop in the morning and the bar at night, Thursday through Sunday, is slowly killing me, but the money is decent.
I need every extra dollar.
Swiping up, I shut the thing off before it has a chance to scream at me too.
There’s always a cold spot on the floor I always hit when I swing my legs off, and today’s no different, not that I should be surprised.
My toes find it instantly, and I hiss under my breath.
This apartment is always either freezing or sauna-hot, depending on what mood the ancient HVAC system feels like being in. And my room is always the worst.
I pad over to my dresser, trying not to step on the one spot where the carpet squeaks. Slipping on my work jeans and a shirt that used to say ‘coffee saves lives’ but now says something like ‘coffe save liv’ because the washer ate half the letters.
It’s fine; it’s like my entire life looks like the washer ate it.
Snatching a sweatshirt off the foot of my bed, I slide my arms and head through it before grabbing the cracked mirror off my desk and angle it up.
I wince when I catch my reflection—sleep-swollen eyes, hair that’s half frizzed from sleeping with it wet, and the kind of exhaustion concealer never fully hides.
Blowing raspberries, I pull out my best concealer and swipe some across the bags under my eyes and tap it in—just in time to hear the neighbors start screaming at each other again.
Tightening the watch around my wrist, I flip my head upside down and gather my blonde hair up before tying it into a bun.
Quickly grabbing my coat and shoes, I crack my bedroom door open.
When I don’t see any hidden shadows, just my mostly empty apartment, I let out a sigh of relief and head for the front door.
Unlocking the deadbolt, I bite my cheek.
I’m out in the crisp, fresh, and cold air.
And then it’s like taking a breath after being underwater too long.
I lock the door behind me and shove my hands into my pocket, heading down the hall.
The overhead lights flicker like they’re deciding whether they want to stay on, though half of them don’t.
The carpet is stained in places I don’t try to identify—I refuse to let myself go back down that path.
But I can’t ignore the stench; some of it burns, some of it—it’s like this place is giving up.
My footsteps echo too loudly, but I keep them measured, the same pace and rhythm; it’s the only thing that’s keeping me anchored.
There’s a door halfway down the hall that I pass every day, one with a dent near the handle.
Then another with chipped paint and a deadbolt that looks newer than the rest of the frame.
I don’t let myself look for too long, because looking too closely turns into imagining, and that turns into planning—I don’t need to plan anything tonight.
The stairwell door sticks as I push it open, metal scraping against the concrete. I wince at the sound at first and then force myself to unclench my jaw and roll my shoulders. If I start flinching at every sound, then I’ll run, and I’m tired of running.
Taking the stairs two at a time, my hand hovers over the railing while the stench of dust and cigarettes slams into me.
I hit the bottom of the stairs and push through the door; the cold hits me immediately, it’s the kind that steals the air straight from my lungs.
My breath fogs in front of me, thick and white, and for a second that’s all there is.
The parking lot is mostly empty; a few cars sit dusted with frost, with a security light buzzing overhead, casting everything in a dull yellow wash.
I pause long enough to peek over the parking lot, check my phone before sliding it back into my pocket, and then step out of the light into the darkness.
I don’t bother looking behind me, knowing that none of them would attack me from the back—they’d stab me from the front first.
Blowing out a breath, I take a step and then another until my walking turns to a jog, and then I’m running down the street.
The streetlights hum overhead, one flickering while the next is dark; it leaves a stretch of sidewalk swallowed by shadows.
Darkness has never been the part that scares me—I thrive in the dark.
But it’s the quiet that I listen for—like the town that didn’t feel like it was holding its breath.
It somehow just exists with its worn edges, uneven sidewalks, and buildings that don’t pretend to be anything else.
There are no gates or cameras perched high but close enough to remind you that they’re there.
And there are no walls pretending to keep you safe while they’re really there to keep you contained.
I never planned on staying here.
But I had to stop because my tank was empty and I was running on nothing but hatred and two hours of sleep. And maybe it was from my sleep deprivation, but the second I stepped out of the car, the air felt different—better.
It was enough and I rented the first place that didn’t ask any questions, and took a job that didn’t look twice
Changed my name—quickly and quietly. There were no eyes on me, no rules pressing in from all sides, just open space.
It’s not home, but it’s the first place that didn’t feel like a cage.
A truck rumbles somewhere in the distance, and my shoulders tense before I remind myself to stop, immediately correcting myself.