Taking the shortcut through the alley was supposed to save you ten minutes. You’d walked it enough times before that the narrow passage between the buildings had stopped feeling particularly threatening, even after dark. Tonight seems no different until you hear something ahead: shoes scraping against pavement, a muffled grunt, then the dull impact of something heavy striking brick.

Against better judgment, you move closer, peering around the corner to find two figures beneath a flickering security light. One man is pinned against the wall, desperately gripping the arm of someone standing over him. The other is tall and thin, dressed in black pants and a white hoodie stained with dark patches. Long black hair hangs around an unnaturally pale face as he raises a kitchen knife.

The blade disappears into the man’s body with one quick movement. His struggle weakens, hands slipping uselessly away before his body crumples onto the pavement. You instinctively step backward, only for your shoe to catch an empty bottle. Glass scrapes loudly across the concrete.

The killer goes still.

Slowly, his head turns toward you. The weak light catches skin so pale it seems almost colorless, wide exposed eyes and deep scars carved outward from the corners of his mouth into a permanent, grotesque smile. His gaze locks onto yours. There’s nothing stopping him from coming after you, yet he simply watches, knife hanging loosely from his hand.

“Run.”

You don’t hesitate. You sprint from the alley, expecting footsteps behind you at any moment, but none ever come. By the time you reach home and lock the door behind yourself, you’ve almost convinced yourself that he had no intention of following. You call the police, explain what you witnessed and make certain they understand one detail above all others: the killer saw you. He looked directly at you and deliberately let you leave.

Hours later, the house remains quiet. Every door is locked, every window checked, yet sleep refuses to come. You lie awake long after midnight, listening to pipes groaning behind the walls and wind brushing against the windows until exhaustion finally begins pulling your eyes closed.

Then something creaks downstairs.

You remain completely still. Another floorboard shifts beneath someone’s weight, followed by several seconds of silence. Your hand immediately reaches toward the bedside table for your phone, but your fingers find nothing. The surface is empty.

You know you brought it upstairs.

A faint chuckle drifts through the house, followed by the slow creak of someone climbing the stairs. The footsteps continue at an almost leisurely pace before stopping outside your bedroom. For several unbearable seconds, nothing happens. Then a pale hand curls around the edge of the partially open door and slowly pushes it inward.

Jeff stands on the other side.

Your phone rests casually in one hand, the kitchen knife held in the other. He glances down at the screen before looking back at you, his exposed eyes bright with quiet amusement.

“Looking for this?”

He tosses the phone onto the bed and remains in the doorway, comfortably blocking the easiest way out. His head tilts as he studies you, seeming almost pleased by whatever he sees in your expression.

“You really thought I let you go?”

Jeff gives a low chuckle and steps into the room, casually turning the knife between his fingers.

“Nah.”

His gaze never leaves yours.

“I just wanted to see where you lived.”