Stranger At My Door

6. Too Close For Comfort

I scrambled to my feet, rushing to lock the bedroom door, as though that thin barrier could protect me from whatever—or whoever—is out there. My hand hovers over my phone, fingers twitching, but I can't seem to dial. Who would I even call? The police? Amber? My mum? None of them would believe me. They'd tell me I'm being paranoid, that I'm imagining things, just like I always do.

But this time, it feels real.

It is real.

I don't know what to do. My palms are slick with sweat, my breath shallow as my heartbeat thunders in my ears. The room seems to pulse around me, the walls closing in, squeezing tighter. Why can't I think straight?

Every creak in the house is like a knife slicing through the silence, each sound more deafening than the last. I'm overreacting. Or am I?

He's out there. I know it. He's going to try and get in. I can feel it.

The air is thick, too still. I feel like I'm drowning in it.

I press my back against the wardrobe, trying to quiet my breath, my thoughts. Keep calm. Keep quiet. There's no movement outside my room, but the image of the hooded figure standing in the garden won't leave me. That shadow—no face, no features, just the feeling of eyes, burning into me.

I close my eyes, but the vision stays, seared into my mind.

And then, the sound of breaking glass shatters the silence.

He's inside.

My heart drops, crashing through me. I grip the scissors tighter, the cold metal biting into my palm. The pain grounds me, but only for a second. My heartbeat is too fast, too loud, too chaotic. I don't have much time.

I look around the room, desperate. Where can I go? Where can I hide?

The wardrobe. If I can get on top... maybe...

My body trembles as I climb onto the desk, my legs barely able to hold me up. Move. Just move. The wood creaks beneath me, and I freeze, my breath catching. Did he hear that?

I force myself to keep going, my hands shaking as I pull myself up onto the top of the wardrobe. It's cramped, dusty. The air is thick with stale heat, every breath sticking in my throat. I press myself against the wall, trying to become invisible.

But I can still hear him. He's inside.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate. Heavy.

Each step feels calculated, like he's taking his time. Searching. The sound of his shoes against the floorboards sends a cold wave of dread through me. I can almost feel him, like the house is a living thing, pulsing with his movements. He's looking for me.

Does he know I'm here?

My breaths come in shallow, suffocated gasps. I try to make them quieter, but the panic has me in its grip. My chest is tight. I can't think. I can't breathe.

The room feels too small, too close. The walls are pressing in, suffocating me. I need air, but I can't make a sound.

Another crash, louder this time. Glass? Wood? I can't tell. Why can't I think straight? The sound jolts through me, fear stabbing deep into my chest. I press my hand to my mouth, desperate to keep myself silent, but the ragged breaths won't stop.

He's getting closer.

The footsteps are frantic now, faster. A change—he's no longer slow and controlled. It's like he's growing impatient.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Please leave. Please.

The soft creak of the staircase cuts through the air.

He's coming up.