Page 17 of Don't Watch Alone
I glance through the peephole. Nothing. Just the glow of hallway lights.
I wait another moment before turning around.
“Probably nothing. Just someone heading in or out.”
Jade watches me like she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. I sit back down, grab the remote, and unmute the movie. The screaming resumes, but it doesn’t hit the same this time. The moment’s broken. My pizza’s cold. The Coke tastes flat.
My eyes keep returning to the door.
Something’s off.
It’s not just that someone moved in. It’s the way the door closed. The way the blinds shifted earlier. Like whoever’s in there knows I saw them. Like they wanted me to.
I need to figure out who that is. Tomorrow or maybe sooner.
***
The second movie is halfway over when Jade finally speaks up, her voice soft like she’s not sure she should say it.
“You think he’s still watching you?”
I don’t have to ask who she means.
“I don’t know,” I say, because it’s the truth. “But it feels like it.”
She nods, picking at the crust of her third slice. “I swear, if he shows up again, I’ll bring Derrick’s bat next time.”
I smile at that, but it’s meaningless.
Another noise.
This one seems closer.
Both of us freeze, with our heads cocked.
But it’s just the fridge kicking on. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
I change into socks and tuck my feet up under me, trying to bury myself in the safety of my apartment—Jade’s laughter, horror clichés, VHS static. But my mind won’t stop replaying his words.
November 9th. Something bad is going to happen.
And the way he said it—almost like he was scared for me. Not trying to intimidate or manipulate. Like a warning he had to give.
Like a secret he shouldn’t have shared.
Chapter eight
Blaiz
Thephone’sloudringingfeels like a slap in the face. It’s my day off, the one morning I’d planned to stay buried beneath my blankets until the sun was high and my guilt was low. I shove my face deeper into the pillow, praying it’ll stop, but of course it doesn’t. It’s Greg.
“Blaiz, thank god you picked up. Mary didn’t show up for work. I need you to come in,” he whines.
“Greg, it’s my day off,” I mutter, trying not to sound as pissed off as I feel.
“I know, I know, but we’re already short. You know how it is… nobody wants to fucking work anymore.”
He’s not wrong, not about that. No one does want to work there. We’re barely scraping by with four people, and he runs the place like a cracked whip.
