Page 7 of Molt

I call the number.

The ringing doesn’t come through the phone. It comes through the ceiling. Faint and muffled.

Above me.

My blood turns to ice.

Someone answers. I hear breathing. Not through my phone.

Above me.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Silence.

Then a man’s voice. Low. Quiet. Tired.

“Don’t peel any more.”

I hang up.

My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the phone.

Another message appears.

Unknown:

Please.

I stare at it.

Then another.

Unknown:

It makes it happen faster.

I don’t respond. I don’t know what the fuck that means and I don’t want to know.

I call the police or I try to.

My thumb hovers over the button.

What am I supposed to say?

“Hello, there’s a man upstairs who somehow knows I’m shedding my body like a fucking reptile?”

I look toward the ceiling.

Silence.

Then something drips onto my hand.

I flinch.

A tiny red drop sits on my knuckle.

Blood.