I head out of my room and down the hall to the kitchen, debating if I should start a new show, such a commitment, or find a movie that appeals to me, also a commitment. If I choose a show, that means I have something to watch for—
“Errrrrrrrm.”
I pause.
What was that?
I don’t move.
I hold my breath, waiting to hear the noise again.
The way the building is mapped out, you wouldn’t hear the penthouse on the other side, and I know I’m alone because JP said he was going out. So, does that mean . . . is someone in here?
My heart pounds wildly in my chest as I creep forward, listening, waiting . . .
“Urggghhh.”
There it is again.
This time, the sound sends a chill down my spine, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
That isn’t a normal building creaking sound. That’s a sound that comes from a human. Or a suffering animal.
Or a suffering human.
Something is suffering.
Creeping forward, I try to stay as quiet as I can so I can locate the sound.
“Uhhhhhhhrrrrrr.”
My head snaps to the right, down the hallway toward JP’s room.
Since the only light on in the main living space is in the kitchen, I can see that there’s no light showing through the crack under JP’s door.
So he’s definitely not home.
Which means . . . there’s either a murderer in there, a suffering animal, or a ghost.
I shuffle to the kitchen, keeping my eyes on his door the entire time as I haphazardly reach for a wooden spoon from the utensils crock on the counter. Spoon in hand, I creep toward his hallway, only to stop when I hear the noise again.
“Frrrrrrrreeerm.”
Oh God.
Oh God.
OH GOD!
I can practically taste my heartbeat as I move closer. My pulse zaps against my neck, stiffening my shoulders. Why am I doing this alone? I should wait for JP to get home.
“Uhhhhhh.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and nervously run in place, my feet lightly padding on the floor.
Turn around, you idiot, this is how people in scary movies die. They investigate the sound. But just like every other moron in a scary movie, I don’t run to my room and call for help. I don’t even grab a freaking knife.
Nope, manned with a wooden spoon—the worst it can do is toss a salad—I slide closer and closer to his room until I hear it . . . a constant pumping sound. Like . . . oh God, like someone is getting stabbed.
“Fuuuuuu.”
Stabbed!
They’re getting stabbed in his room right now. Wait . . . what if JP is getting stabbed and I’m just standing here, outside of his door with a wooden spoon, doing nothing? What if he came home without me knowing and was attacked?
My nipples grow hard in fear.
I nearly choke on my saliva.
And before I can stop myself, I pull down on the doorknob, then kick the door open and accompany it with a warrior scream that nearly deafens me.
“EEEEEEE AHHHHHHHHH!” I yell, wielding my spoo