The emergency call center must be overwhelmed.
“What do I do?” I talk out loud as if someone will hear me. A self-comforting act as I stand in the study, waiting to hear footsteps running down the stairs, coming for me.
Eventually, fear turns to something else. Closing my phone, I slip it in my pocket as a burning sense of self-preservation drives me from the study. I walk across the landing and pause by the balustrade.
I look up, waiting to see or hear activity. I wait another minute, and then slowly sneak up the steps. Remembering the sounds, I visualize the route the intruder took. Across the center area and down the hallway. But to where?
Using the poker, I ease open the doors to the third-floor rooms. All of them are empty. To be safe, I check under beds and in bathrooms. No one. Whoever was here is gone.
But how did they get out? How are they accessing the apartment? Coming and going at will?
Coming back out to the landing, I glance around, wondering how many times they’ve entered my space. To leave a copy ofCarmilla. To stand in the shadows. To watch me sleep.
The idea rattles me to the core, and I know I can’t sit down or relax. I can’t spend another minute—let alone another night—in this apartment. Not until I figure out how they’re getting in.
Whoevertheyare.
Glancing around the top level, I notice another door. One that didn’t occur to me right away, because it’s concealed, hidden in the paneling.
Of course.
The door to the hidden staircase.
Clenching my elbows tight to my sides, I use both hands and readjust my grip on the poker, the iron slick from my sweaty palm. Crossing to the panel, I push in and let it pop back out.
The panel brushes over the floor, soft as a sigh.
I let out a gasp, because I recognize the sound. Like a whispered, “Hush.”
I heard it my first night in the apartment, when I was coming down the stairs.
They’ve been coming inside since the very first night.
Ignoring the prickle of unease, I study the plain, wooden steps before me. I’ve only used these stairs once before, the day the cobwebs and spider ran me out. I never made it to the basement. I never checked the door.
But the sounds came from up here. From the top floor. That would mean . . .
Leaning into the darkness, I tilt my head and look up. Stairs to the attic. When Luci gave me a tour, she told me the basement door was double-locked.
But she never mentioned the attic.
Pulling out my phone, I turn on the flashlight and creep upward, cringing each time I take a step. Expecting a creak to give me away. I feel cold and hot at the same time, as if every nerve ending is out of whack.
Dread fills my gut like curdled milk, but I need to push on. I need to know.
Once I reach the door, I stay quiet, certain the intruder is on the other side. Listening, waiting to ambush me. When I can stand it no longer, I grip the old brass knob. Turn. And push.
The door moans as it opens, swinging freely into the shadows. Not barred by a lock from either side.
Anyone from the main house can walk right in.
My phone pings in my hand. I startle so hard I almost drop it but manage to clench it in my fingers before it falls.
Pulling the attic door shut, I hurry down to my apartment, close the panel, and lean against the wall.
I check my phone. Another push notification. Opening the app, I find a message waiting for me. From Alice.
But when I read her message, the world bottoms out. And everything I know is turned upside down.
