A psychic told me to hide under my bed before midnight. He got it wrong.
I'm 27, live alone in a third-floor apartment, and I haven't been sleeping well since I moved to this city. New job, new walls, the kind of silence that makes your ears ring.
Mina, my coworker, noticed I looked like shit. Last Saturday she insisted on taking me to see someone she called "Mr. Liang," a psychic who worked out of a cramped room above a phone repair shop downtown. I thought it was a joke. She didn't laugh.
The room smelled like ash. A ceiling fan clicked overhead. Mr. Liang grabbed my wrist without asking, closed his eyes, and counted under his breath. Then he asked, "Which side of your bed faces the window?"
I told him.
His face changed.
"A woman will come for you at midnight on Tuesday," he said. "Before twelve, you must hide beneath your bed. Stay flat. Make no sound. She cannot see what is below."
I asked if he could give me a charm or something. Mina kicked my shin. Mr. Liang didn't smile. He wrote TUESDAY, BEFORE 12:00, UNDER THE BED on a receipt and pressed it into my hand.
I told myself it was bullshit. By Monday I almost believed that.
Then Tuesday came.
I was brushing my teeth at 9:40 p.m. when I noticed the receipt sitting on the edge of my sink. I hadn't taken it out of my wallet. I checked. My wallet was still zipped inside my jacket in the hallway closet.
My hands were shaking before I even decided to believe it.
I locked the front door. Checked every window. Wedged a chair under my bedroom door handle. Then I sat on the bed and watched the clock.
11:50.
11:55.
11:58. I lowered myself to the floor and slid under the bed. Dust against my lips. The wooden slat inches from my nose. I could see the carpet, the bottom of my door, and the red glow of my alarm clock.
I held my breath.
12:00.
Something hit the pavement outside my window. Not a thud. A crack. Wet and heavy, like a watermelon splitting on concrete.
Silence.
Then: crack. Crack. CRACK. Joints popping. Bones rearranging.
My front door opened. I locked it. I know I locked it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not footsteps. Something hard and round hitting my hardwood floor. Dragging closer. Through the living room. Stopping outside my bedroom.
The chair scraped. The door swung open.
The tapping entered my room. Stopped beside my bed.
My phone buzzed against my chest. I nearly bit through my tongue. I tilted the screen just enough to read:
MR. LIANG: I made a mistake. She didn't hang herself. She jumped, landed head first. Her head is on the ground. YOU NEED TO BE ABOVE HER. GET HIGH. NOW.
The mattress above me sank. A slat pressed against my cheek.
I turned my head toward the edge of the bed.
A face was already there.
Sideways on the floor. Cheek flattened against the carpet. Wet black hair fanned out like a puddle. Her eyes were open and locked onto mine. Her body rose above her, upside down, balanced on the crushed skull, knees and elbows bent at wrong angles.
She smiled.
I screamed.
I shoved myself out from the other side of the bed, shoulder burning against the carpet. She moved instantly. I heard the skull scrape across the floor, the snap of limbs unfolding behind me.
I scrambled to my feet and ran for the door. Behind me, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, fast now, like someone drumming fingernails on wood, except it was her head bouncing off the floor with each stride of her inverted body.
I made it to the hallway. Slipped. My knee hit the floor and I felt something cold brush the back of my neck. Fingers, wet, sliding down my collar. I twisted away and grabbed the bathroom doorframe to pull myself up.
The hallway was dark but I could hear her. The tapping didn't stop. It got faster. Closer. I could hear her breathing now. Short, quick inhales through a crushed nose, like someone sniffing for a scent.
I reached the front door. Fumbled with the lock. My fingers were numb. I could feel the air behind me go cold, could hear the wet drag of hair across the floor right behind my heels.
The lock clicked. I threw the door open and launched myself into the stairwell.
I didn't look back. I took the stairs three at a time. Up. Mr. Liang said get high. I hit the rooftop door with my full weight and burst into the night air.
I spun around to slam the door shut.
She was at the bottom of the stairwell. I could see her through the gap. Head on the ground. Body arched above. Smiling up at me from three flights below.
Then she started climbing.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Her skull hitting each step. Fast. Too fast.
I slammed the door. There was no lock. I pressed my back against it and felt the thuds getting closer, vibrating through the metal.
Her hand punched through the gap under the door and grabbed my ankle.
I woke up gasping.
Ceiling fan. My bedroom. Sheets soaked with sweat, twisted around my legs like something had been pulling them.
A dream. A fucking dream.
I sat up and pressed my palms into my eyes until I saw stars. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
I grabbed my phone. No messages. I looked at the alarm clock.
11:51 PM. Tuesday.
I let out the longest breath of my life and fell back against the pillow. Just a nightmare. Just my stupid brain replaying what that old man said. I almost laughed at myself.
The apartment was quiet. Completely still. Just the hum of the fridge and the ceiling fan clicking above me.
I closed my eyes.
Then, from somewhere far below, the pavement, maybe three floors down.
A wet crack.
Silence.
Thud.
A pause.
Thud.
Closer.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Coming up the stairs.
My eyes shot open. I jerked my head toward the alarm clock.
The red digits weren't moving. The colon between the zeros didn't blink.
12:00.