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The lock clicked open at the exact second every light in the building died.
I froze with my pick still inside the deadbolt.
Then the old woman behind the apartment door said, very clearly, “Elias Morrow.”
The hallway went black enough to swallow my hand when I lifted it in front of my face. Somewhere downstairs, people started yelling. A kid cried. Somebody dropped a bottle, and glass popped across tile.
My phone flashlight came on after the third tap. Weak little circle of blue-white light. Better than nothing.
“Mrs. Dalloway?” I called.
Nothing.
I looked at the lock again. It had been jammed from the inside, which was why the landlord had called me at nine forty-seven on a Thursday night and offered cash. He said the tenant was old, confused, probably asleep with the chain on.
He did not mention that Mrs. Dalloway had been dead for six days.
They never did.
People called me for stuck locks. Bad doors. Apartments where the deadbolt turned by itself at three in the morning. They told themselves I was just a locksmith with decent rates and no questions.
That was cute.
I pulled my pick free and pushed the door open with two fingers.
The chain wasn’t on.
The apartment smelled like spoiled milk, wet carpet, and that coppery stink you got after somebody had been bleeding too long. My flashlight beam shook across a narrow living room packed with old furniture. Plastic-covered couch. Knickknacks. A little ceramic dog with one ear broken off.
“Mrs. Dalloway?”
The voice came from the kitchen.
“Elias Morrow.”
I swallowed. “Yeah, I heard you the first time.”
My mouth went dry anyway.
The dead never spoke like normal people. Not at first. Usually it was a word. A name. Sometimes a smell hit me so hard I knew what they wanted before they got there.
Fire.
Water.
Don’t let him in.
I had learned not to answer too much. It made them stick around.
But Mrs. Dalloway had been buried on Monday. I knew because her niece had hired me to clear out the place after the funeral. I had been standing in this same room two days ago, putting sticky notes on furniture and trying not to listen when something in the bathroom whispered, Not the blue box.
Now the apartment was supposed to be empty.
“Who’s Elias Morrow?” I asked.
The kitchen light fixture swung overhead even though there was no power and no wind. My flashlight caught the edge of a white blouse.
Mrs. Dalloway stood beside the kitchen table.
Or something stood there wearing what was left of her.
Her gray hair was pinned into the same bun from the funeral photo. Her face sagged wrong, loose around the mouth. Her eyes looked like two dark holes punched through paper.
I took one step back.
She smiled.
I hate when they smile.
“You brought the key,” she said.
“Nope.” I lifted both hands. “Just here for the lock. Super boring lock stuff. You’ve got the wrong girl.”
Her head jerked toward me.
My phone light blinked out.
For one ugly second, I heard a sound from somewhere in the apartment. Not Mrs. Dalloway.
A wet inhale.
Then my phone came back on, and she was gone.
The kitchen was empty.
I stood there with my tool bag bumping against my knee and every nerve in my body yelling at me to leave.
Which, yeah. Smart plan.
Then my phone buzzed.
Micah.
I grabbed it so fast I almost dropped it.
MICHAH CALLING.
My brother never called after ten. He texted. He sent dumb memes. He left voice notes that started with, “Okay, don’t get mad,” which always meant I should absolutely get mad.
I answered. “Micah?”
Static chewed through the line.
“Hey,” he said.
His voice was thin. Way too thin.
I turned toward the apartment door. “Where are you?”
Another burst of static. Then a hard cough.
Not the normal kind. It sounded like he was choking on water.
“Micah.” My stomach dropped. “Talk to me. Are you hurt?”
“I’m at—” He coughed again. “Nora, don’t come home.”
“Too late. I’m already heading there.”
“No.” His voice cracked. “Listen to me. Don’t open the door if somebody—”
The call cut off.
I stared at my phone.
No service.
Of course. Whole city blackout, towers probably down, everybody panicking and buying bottled water like the apocalypse had a schedule.
I hit redial.
Nothing.
“Damn it.”
Behind me, a cabinet door slammed.
I spun around so fast my shoulder hit the wall.
The kitchen was still empty. But every cabinet stood open now.
Inside each one sat a single drinking glass.
They were all full of black water.
One glass tipped over.
The water ran across the counter, thick and slow. It dripped onto the floor in dark beads.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
My phone buzzed in my hand again.
No call. No text.
Just a new voicemail.
I didn’t remember it ringing.
I pressed play.
At first there was only breathing.
Then Micah said, “Nora?”
I squeezed the phone against my ear.
“Micah?”
The recording kept going.
His voice sounded farther away now. Like he was calling from the bottom of a stairwell.
“Nora, he found me.”
The message cut off.
The black water on the floor started moving toward my boots.
I ran.
I didn’t stop to grab my tools. Didn’t stop to close the door. I hit the hallway at a dead sprint, shoulder-checking the wall when I turned for the stairs.
The elevator was dead, obviously. The emergency lights had kicked on at the end of the corridor, but they were barely alive. Red bulbs. Long shadows. Every apartment door looked shut tight.
Except 4B.
Mrs. Dalloway’s door stood open behind me.
From inside, something laughed.
Not loud. Not human, either.
I took the stairs two at a time.
By the third floor, my phone caught one bar. I called Micah again.
It rang once.
Then he picked up.
“Nora?”
I nearly tripped down the next flight. “Micah. Thank God. Where the hell are you?”
He didn’t answer.
I could hear him breathing. Fast. Scared.
“Micah?”
“Nora, I’m home.”
My chest went tight.
“Okay. Stay there. Lock the door. I’m fifteen minutes out.”
“No, you don’t get it.”
“What?”
“There’s somebody outside.”
I shoved through the stairwell door into the lobby. The landlord was crouched beside the front desk, yelling into a dead landline. Two tenants were arguing near the entrance. Nobody looked at me.
“Call the cops,” I said.
“I tried.”
“Try harder.”
“Nora.” Micah’s voice cracked through the phone. “He knows my name.”
Everything in me went cold.
“Who?”
A pause.
Then Micah whispered, “Elias Morrow.”
The lobby noise vanished behind the blood rushing in my ears.
I pushed out into the street.
The city had gone stupid in the dark.
Traffic lights were out. Cars blocked the intersection, horns blaring nonstop. Storefronts sat black behind metal gates. People stood on sidewalks with their phones held up like little dead candles.
A police siren wailed somewhere downtown, then died mid-note.
I started running home.
My apartment was only twelve blocks away. Normally I would’ve taken the train, but the station entrance was packed with people trying to force their way through locked gates. So I ran past the bodega, past the laundromat, past the alley where somebody was screaming that the blackout had started in Queens and crossed the river.
My lungs burned by block six.
Micah stayed on the line.
At least I thought he did.
Every few seconds, I heard that same wet cough.
“Talk to me,” I said, cutting around a stalled delivery truck. “What does the guy look like?”
“He’s not trying to get in.”
“What?”
“He said he’s trying to keep something out.”
I almost laughed. It came out rough. “That’s what he told you?”
“He has a ring.”
My feet slowed.
“What kind of ring?”
“Silver. Maybe. I can’t see.”
“Micah, don’t open the door for some freak with jewelry.”
“I didn’t.”
His voice dropped lower.
“But it opened anyway.”
The call went dead.
I ran harder.
Our building came into view at the end of the block. Six floors, cracked brick, busted front awning. Home sweet overpriced hell.
The front door was propped open.
That was wrong.
Mr. Patel always locked it. Even during fire drills. Especially during fire drills.
I pulled my small flashlight from my jacket pocket and stepped inside.
“Micah?”
The lobby smelled like old dust and hot wires.
No answer.
The mailboxes lined the wall to my left. One of them hung open. Somebody had scratched deep marks across the metal door.
Four lines.
Then four more.
I headed for the stairs.
My phone had no signal now. Not even a fake bar. The screen kept dimming by itself, like the battery was draining in chunks.
On the second floor, I heard a door close above me.
“Micah?”
Nothing.
Third floor. My apartment.
The hall light outside 3C was dead, but I knew every crack in that hallway. Every stain. The smell of bleach leaking from 3A. The pile of old flyers nobody picked up by the radiator.
Our front door stood shut.
The lock was intact.
That was worse than if it had been broken.
I walked up slowly. Pulled my key ring from my pocket. My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Micah,” I called through the door. “It’s me.”
Nothing.
I fitted the key into the lock.
Before I could turn it, something hit the other side.
Hard.
The door jumped in its frame.
I stumbled back.
“Micah?”
A cough answered me.
Right there. On the other side of the door.
My heart kicked so hard it hurt.
“Open up,” I said. “Come on, just unlock it.”
Another cough.
Then Micah’s voice, weak and breathless.
“Nora?”
“I’m here.”
“Don’t let him take it.”
My hand closed around the doorknob. “Take what?”
The deadbolt turned by itself.
Click.
I didn’t move.
The handle twisted under my palm.
The door opened two inches.
Cold air spilled through the gap. Not normal cold. Basement cold. Graveyard cold. It crawled over my knuckles and up my arm.
“Micah?”
No answer.
I shoved the door open.
Our apartment was dark.
The living room lamp lay smashed on the floor. Couch cushions had been ripped open. The kitchen chairs were overturned. Every cabinet door stood wide open.
Just like Mrs. Dalloway’s place.
“Micah!”
I rushed toward his room.
The bedroom door was closed.
A dark smear ran from the hallway wall to the bottom of it.
Blood.
My flashlight shook across the floor.
“Micah, answer me.”
From behind the door, he coughed again.
I grabbed the knob.
A woman laughed inside the room.
Not Mrs. Dalloway’s voice.
This one was younger.
Closer.
And way too happy.
My hand locked on the knob.
“Nora,” Micah whispered from behind the door. “Please.”
I shoved it open.
The room was empty.
Micah’s bed had been stripped bare. His desk chair faced the window. The window was open, curtains lifting in the warm night air.
There was blood on the floor.
Not much. Just a line of red leading from the bed to the center of the room.
And there, sitting on the carpet like somebody had placed it carefully for me, was a silver ring.
It was too big for Micah. Heavy. Old-looking. A black stone sat in the middle, cracked straight down the center.
Blood coated one side of the band.
My breath caught.
I crouched and reached for it.
The second my fingers touched the metal, pain ripped across my palm.
I gasped and dropped to one knee.
The ring flashed red.
Not reflected light. Not a trick. Red pulsed under the black stone like a heartbeat.
A voice came from the apartment doorway.
“Don’t put that on.”
I spun around.
A man stood at the end of the hall.
Tall. Dark coat. Rain on his hair even though it hadn’t rained all night. His face looked drawn tight, like he hadn’t slept in days. There was blood on his cuff and a fresh cut along his jaw.
His eyes landed on the ring in my hand.
Then they lifted to mine.
“You have no idea what you just opened,” he said.
Behind him, the hallway lights blinked once.
And every dead voice in the building started whispering my name.