Don't Look Up – Part 1
It started the first week after Emma moved into her new apartment in Chicago. The place was perfect—small, affordable, and close to her work. The building was old but charming, with creaky wooden floors and the faint smell of coffee from the café downstairs.
Her landlord, Mr. Greene, said the unit above was empty. That was fine with Emma—she liked quiet. But the third night, she woke up at 2:47 a.m. to the sound of footsteps.
Not just footsteps—slow, deliberate pacing. Back and forth. It went on for almost an hour.
The next morning, she went upstairs to introduce herself. She knocked—no answer. The door handle was dusty, and a crooked “For Rent” sign hung loosely. The apartment was still empty.
That night, the pacing came back—this time with a dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across the floor.
Days passed. Sometimes she heard muffled voices, sometimes a single knock above her bed. One night, she recorded the noise—and on playback, she heard it:
“Don’t look up.”
Emma froze. When she asked Mr. Greene about it, he said the last tenant left after “the police stopped coming.” That night, the pacing stopped right above her bed.
Her phone lit up—an unknown number. She answered. Breathing. Then, the whisper again:
“Don’t look up, Emma.”
She dropped the phone. Dust fell from the ceiling—followed by a single long strand of hair. To be continued...