3:01 a.m.

If you don't keep quiet, he'll hear you.

The house is never silent, I know that. The pipes flood with water on the hour, and the washing machine cracks like a whip one floor below. But tonight, there is something different in the noises. The floorboards creak. I still. Instinctively grab the sheets.

He knew there was a lady in the attic. He'd been watching her through the windows. When she was out in the woods, he'd sneak into her home and study the path to her bedroom. Walk it obsessively. One day, he swore. One night.

I. don't. even. dare. to. breathe. My own thoughts feel too loud, like they are bouncing off the walls, calling the soulless creature to me. I don't blink as I focus on the house's walls, listening hard. Just before the pipes whirl to ring in three a.m., I hear the footfall on the first step.

Shit.

Two steps, three. There are exactly 27 steps up to her room. Four, five. He knows she knows. Even under the gurgling of the pipes at three 'o' clock, he can hear her scrambling out of bed, pushing a chair up against the door. Thirteen. He doesn't even quicken his step. Sixteen. Where can she go?

Twenty.

The window's jammed. Thump! Thwack! She recoils, pain slamming up her fist. Oh, fuck. She wrenches apart the closet doors. Dives under the bed. Instantly regrets it. Fuck. Fuck!

Twenty-seven.

I shake myself. Wake up. Wake up!

The doorknob turns.