Page 5 of Molt

I search under the nightstand, behind the dresser, the hamper.

Nothing.

My heart beats rapidly inside my chest when I look toward the bedroom door. I know I closed it when I went to the bathroom.

It’s open.

Only a few inches.

But it’s open.

“Hello?”

Silence.

My apartment suddenly feels enormous.

Which is ridiculous because it’s barely seven hundred square feet.

“Is someone here?”

Nothing.

I grab the first weapon I can find. A fucking curling iron.

Perfect.

If there’s a murderer in my apartment, I’ll give him beach waves before he kills me.

I move into the hallway.

Bathroom. Empty.

Kitchen. Empty.

Living room. Empty.

The chain is still across the front door. Deadbolt locked and windows closed.

I stand in the middle of my living room holding the curling iron against my chest.

Then I hear it.

Footsteps above me.

Slow.

One. Two. Three. Stop.

My eyes lift toward the ceiling.

Apartment 305. The man upstairs. I’ve never met him. I rarely ever see him. Once—maybe twice in the past few months. He’s tall with dark hair —eyes. Always wearing black.

The first time I saw him, he was standing inside the lobby while rain hammered against the windows. He wasn’t doing anything. Just standing there looking at me.

I remember thinking I knew him. Not that he looked familiar. Something stranger. Like a feeling you get when you walk into a room and forget why you’re there.

Recognition without memory.