Chris clenched his teeth, determined not to make a sound. The sight of the lifeless body before him had sent an icy chill down his spine. Without hesitation, he texted Hayden: "Call the police, quick!"
The room was dimly lit, and a heavy wooden door separated Chris from the group of tenants. His livestream audience, oblivious to the gruesome scene unfolding, continued watching without a clue. But Chris had no time to think about them now. He pressed closer to the crack in the door, his eyes wide open, trying not to blink.
"They hid a body in the walls... that's what they were digging for." Chris whispered to himself, pressing his back against the cold, cracked wall. This was the most dangerous moment. The tenants were only a few steps away. If they turned toward the room he was hiding in, they'd discover him immediately.
"Quit stalling, just dig!" The landlord cursed under his breath, shuffling forward with a set of tools. He spread a large bag on the floor and began chipping away at the cement surrounding the woman's corpse.
The group worked silently, their movements light, as if afraid to wake the sleeping tenants below. Their hushed breaths were the only sounds in the room, aside from the occasional scrape of a tool against concrete.
Sweat dripped from their faces, and it was unclear whether the cause was fear or exertion. Their teamwork was uncoordinated and sloppy. None of them had ever done something like this before, and their nerves were fraying. Progress was slow.
After what felt like an eternity, they finally freed the corpse from the wall, stuffing it into the bag with trembling hands.
"You stay here and clean up the mess on the wall," the landlord ordered a stocky man. "The rest of you, follow me. We'll bury her on the hill behind the building."
"I'm coming with you!" The stocky man's voice wavered as he glanced nervously at the corpse. His face was pale and sweat-soaked, and he was clearly on the verge of collapse. The idea of staying alone in that room was unbearable.
"Quit whining! Diana, stay here and help him clean up. The rest of you, follow me." The landlord shot the lone woman in the group a look, then, along with a tattooed man, hefted the bag and began making his way downstairs.
Chris held his breath as the landlord limped past the door where he was hiding. His footsteps were uneven, one soft and the other heavy. Suddenly, the landlord paused.
"Why is there so much cotton on the floor?" he muttered, eyes narrowing.
Chris's heart pounded in his chest. The broken doll… bits of cotton and paper had fallen from it when he'd ripped it apart earlier. The noise-activated hallway light had turned on too quickly for him to clean up the mess.
"Forget it," the tattooed man grumbled from behind. "Let's just bury this thing before we're caught."
Reluctantly, the landlord let it go, and the two men continued down the hall, disappearing from Chris's view.
"Come on, get to work," Diana snapped at the stocky man, breaking the tense silence. Together, they began cleaning the blood-stained tools and disposing of the debris. A few minutes later, Chris heard their footsteps fade as they descended the stairs.
Only when the building was silent again did Chris allow himself to exhale. His pulse still raced, and he dared not move for a full minute. Once sure the coast was clear, he slowly inched his way toward the door, peeking through the crack once more.
The hallway outside was pitch black. The tenants were gone.
"That was way too close," Chris muttered under his breath.
After waiting for another few minutes, still no sign of movement from outside, he cautiously pushed the door open and slipped out. Staying as quiet as possible, he hugged the wall, moving slowly through the darkness.
From what he had overheard, it seemed the tenants had nothing to do with the body inside the wall. These people weren't killers—just unlucky squatters. They had taken over the old lady's apartment without realizing the horrible secret hidden in the walls. Fearful of the police, likely due to their own criminal records, they had chosen to cover up the crime rather than report it.
"No wonder the landlord was so insistent that I don't go out after midnight." Chris's eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he picked up his pace, eager to leave the apartment complex as quickly as possible.
Moving silently through the halls, Chris approached the ground floor, but his heart sank when he reached the door.
"Locked," he muttered under his breath, his frustration growing. "Of course, they locked the door on their way out."
The security door was shut tight, trapping him inside. He glanced around. The windows on the first-floor hallway were covered with metal security bars, and the windows on the third floor had been sealed with wooden boards. There was only one way out now—the window on the second floor.
The oppressive atmosphere inside the building weighed on him, making it impossible to linger. He tightened his grip on the hammer in his hand and hurried back to the second floor.
The hallway stretched out in front of him like the gaping maw of a beast, swallowing any sound that dared to echo through its walls. A suffocating silence filled the space, and Chris's nerves were stretched taut. He felt the eyes of the building upon him, like the place itself was watching, waiting.
"It's too quiet." His own room was at the far left end of the hall, right next to the landlord's. Every step he took seemed to echo endlessly in his ears. He dreaded the thought that one of the doors might suddenly swing open, revealing something far worse than the tenants.
Chris slowed his steps, careful to control his breathing. It took him over a minute to reach the door to his room, but as he touched the handle, he froze.
"The hair… where's the hair I put in the lock?"
His body went rigid, cold sweat dripping down his spine. He had placed a single strand of hair in the keyhole as a makeshift alarm—if someone entered his room, the hair would fall.
Now, it was gone.
"Someone's been inside my room. They know I'm not there!"
Panic surged through him, his breath quickening, and his lungs felt frozen, as though filled with ice. When did they go in? Was it after they dug up the body? Or was it when they saw the cotton on the floor?
It didn't matter. All that mattered now was that he was in danger. The intruders could still be in there, waiting for him.
I can't go back in there. They're probably hiding inside, holding that steel rod… waiting.
Chris steadied himself, forcing his racing thoughts to calm. He needed to escape, and fast. Every moment spent inside this cursed building increased the risk of being caught.
Retreating without making a sound, Chris moved toward the far right side of the second-floor hallway—the side farthest from his room. His only chance of survival was to smash the lock on one of the empty rooms and climb out through the window.
"I have to make this count," he whispered to himself, gripping the hammer tightly. "My life depends on it."
With a final deep breath, Chris lifted the hammer and brought it down hard on the lock of the nearest door.
The silence that had blanketed the building shattered like glass. The loud bang reverberated through the halls as Chris continued hammering the lock, desperate to break through.
From the left side of the hall, the door to Chris's former room—room 208—swung open violently. The landlord and the tattooed man burst out, their faces twisted in rage and panic, brandishing weapons. The landlord held a steel rod, while the tattooed man gripped a knife.
"Come on, open!" Chris shouted, smashing the lock one last time.
With a final crash, the lock gave way, and Chris kicked the door open, rushing inside.
Now, your heart pounding, you can't stop. You're not just witnessing Chris's story. You're living it, with every creak, every shadow twisting around the corner. Is escape truly possible, or has the darkness of the apartment already claimed him as its own?