Watching My Own Death Live

Three in the morning. I was a ghost of myself, dragging my body toward my apartment after another soul-crushing shift at the office.

The motion-sensor lights in the stairwell were on their last legs, flickering with a dying, stuttering rhythm. Id barely cleared the first two steps when I heard it: the heavy, rhythmic thud-thud of footsteps behind me.

My heart didn't just beat; it lunged into my throat. I white-knuckled the strap of my laptop bag and bolted upward.

The strange thing was, those heavy steps only followed for a flight or two. Then, they stopped. In their place came the sharp, elegant clack-clack-clack of high heels hitting the concrete.

"Just a neighbor," I whispered, a desperate prayer to the empty air. I forced my breathing to slow, fumbling in my bag for my keys.

Thats when the world broke.

Translucent lines of text began to drift across my vision, glowing like a low-latency Twitch stream.

[Look! There she is! The lead in that legendary cold case!]

[Dont stop, you idiot! Run! The killer is right behind you! Hes got heels on his hands to mimic a womans walk!]

[Women living alone have zero survival instincts. Walking home solo in the middle of the night? Shes practically asking for a target on her back.]

I froze. My brain stalled, trying to process the impossible subtitles hovering in the air.

Was I... the victim they were talking about?

Before I could wrap my head around the "how," the clicking of those heels grew louder. Closer. Rapid.

I didn't stay to find out. I sprinted the last half-flight, dove into my apartment, and slammed the deadbolt home. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely pull the safety chain.

The text was still there, scrolling across the grain of my wooden door.

[Hes not just a killer; hes a total freak. This case stayed cold for decades because he murdered her and literally bricked her into the walls of his new house. They didnt find her remains until he died and the property was sold.]

[The killer is a perfectionist. Hes been staking her out for days. He finally got his window tonight; hes not giving up.]

[So stupid. She hasn't even called the cops. She deserves whats coming.]

[Ugh... can we not with the victim-blaming?]

The "comments" snapped me out of my trance. I lunged for my phone and dialed 911.

Heart hammering against my ribs, I pressed my ear to the door. Sure enough, I heard itthe surreal, sickening shuffle of leather dress shoes mixed with the sharp clack of heels, pacing right outside my entryway.

I remembered my doorbell camera. With trembling fingers, I pulled up the feed on my phone.

The image made my blood turn to ice.

A man was there, fully masked, crouched on all fours like a predatory insect. He had dress shoes on his feet and a pair of red pumps over his hands. He was staringunmoving, unblinkingdirectly at my door.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a sob.

He lingered for a few more seconds, then began to crawl up the stairs, disappearing from the cameras view.

I waited, my lungs burning from holding my breath. Just as I started to exhale, he reappeared. But this time, he was different. He had stripped off his shoes. In just his socks, he moved with the silence of a shadow, gliding back to my door.

He was standing right there. Inches away. Separated only by a slab of wood.

My knees gave out. I collapsed into a heap, my strength vanishing.

The camera feed wasn't real-timeit lagged by a few seconds. Driven by a primal need to know where he was right now, I forced myself up and peered through the peephole.

I gasped, reeling back.

A single, bloodshot eye was staring back at me through the glass, wide and brimming with pure, concentrated malice.

The police were still minutes away. In this silence, minutes were an eternity. I had to survive.

The sheer terror transformed into a jagged spike of adrenaline. I grabbed everythingthe heavy bookshelf, the kitchen table, the entryway benchand dragged them against the door, barricading myself in.

I kept the monitor open, tracking him.

He paced for a while, then finally, he seemed to retreat into the shadows of the hallway.

Im safe, I thought. I slid to the floor, my back against the barricade, gasping for air. My shirt was plastered to my skin with cold sweat.

The text scrolled again.

[Wait, why is this different? Wasn't she supposed to be garroted from behind before she even reached the door?]

[The lead seems to know. She blocked the door. Shes changing the script.]

[Blocking the door wont matter. Shes dead anyway.]

[Can you guys at least hope for a win for once?]

I stared at the words. The "plot" could be changed. But according to these... viewers... I was still marked for death.

But how? The windows were locked. The door was a fortress. The killer was gone. Why did they sound so certain?

Hes been staking you out for days, the text had said. What did I ever do to this man? Id been living at the office for a week finishing the Q3 reports. Tonight was the first time Id even come home to sleep.

[Oh god, hes inside. I cant watch!]

[Im crying. She worked so hard to block that door, and hes still going to get her.]

[Its like filling out a whole Scantron and still failing the exam...]

[Seriously, what did she do to him? To make him work this hard to kill her?]

[Nobody knows. When they found her body, the killer was already dead. The secret died with him. Its starting! Its starting! Eyes closed!]

Inside? How could he be inside?

Then, the realization hit me like a physical blow. The bedroom balcony.

The neighboring apartment shared a narrow ledge. It was a jump, a dangerous one, but for someone this obsessed, it was a breeze.

My scalp crawled. I scrambled to push the furniture away, to get out, to run into the hallwaythe very place I had just fled. But I had done too good a job. I was trapped by my own barricade.

Click.

The bedroom door creaked open.

I didn't escape. I felt the thin, wire-like cord bite into the skin of my throat. As the world turned black and my lungs screamed for oxygen, I heard him. He was humming a soft, upbeat little tune, savoring the rhythm of my final struggle.

I snapped awake.

I was standing in the mouth of a narrow alleyway. At the far end sat the rusted iron gates of my apartment complex.

I was alive.

I clutched my throat, gasping, the phantom sensation of the wire still burning into my flesh. I realized, with a jarring clarity, that I had been reset. Reborn.

This alley was a trap. It was the only way into the complex, flanked by high brick walls. If he wanted me, this was where hed wait.

Was he behind me? Was he already tucked into a corner of the courtyard?

I reached for my phone to call 911, but my thumb hovered over the screen. If he was right behind me, a phone call would trigger a "nothing to lose" attack.

As I hesitated, the text flickered back into existence.

[Is this the cold case? The one where she was found in the wall decades later?]

[The killer is literally right behind her right now. This is terrifying.]

My blood ran cold. I forced myself not to look back.

In the previous timeline, he waited until I was inside. He wanted the privacy of the building to handle the "disposal." If he killed me here, in the alley, the risk of a witness was too high.

The building was old. No cameras in the halls. A dying security system. It was a killers playground.

I was "safe" for the next sixty seconds, but as soon as I crossed that threshold, the clock started again.

I began to walk, my legs feeling like leaden weights.

[I wish I could jump into the screen and tell her to run!]

[Running doesn't help. Single woman living alonethe deck is stacked against her. If she dodges this guy, there's always the next one.]

[Look at Mr. Cynical over here. Shut up and let us watch!]

I couldn't run. I had to be smarter. I needed a witness. A protector.

If the killer saw I wasn't alone, hed pull back. I couldn't call the police yetwhat would I say? "A man is walking behind me"? Theyd arrive, hed vanish, and Id be labeled a hysteric while he waited for tomorrow night. No. I needed a deterrent.

It was the middle of the night. My friends all lived uptown.

Then I remembered Tyler.

Tyler was the son of Mrs. Henderson, the lady who lived directly below me. He was a professional MMA coachbuilt like a tank and twice as tough. Hed been staying with his mom for the last week, helping her pack.

A few days ago, hed stopped me in the hall to give me a ceramic vase they didn't want to move. Hed been friendly, almost hovering, and wed exchanged numbers.

In the last timeline, I remembered hearing a door click shut downstairs right before I died. He was awake.

I shot him a text, my fingers flying. Tyler, please. Someone is following me in the alley. Im scared. Are you awake?

The reply was instant.

Stay calm. Im coming down to the gate now.

Id like to see some prick try to touch you while Im there.

The flickering streetlights overhead hummed, casting long, distorted shadows. I tucked my chin into my jacket and quickened my pace.

When I reached the gate, Tyler was there. He looked imposing in a heavy hoodie, leaning against the brickwork.

The relief was so sharp it was almost painful. I hurried to him, and as I stepped into his shadow, the floating text vanished.

The "plot" had shifted. I had survived the encounter.

Tylers eyes were locked on the darkness behind me. He didn't even look at me; he just started walking past me, his jaw set in a hard line of fury.

Tyler, wait! I grabbed his arm. Are you crazy?

Dont stop me, he growled. Im going to teach this creep a lesson he wont forget. Hell be calling me sir by the time Im done with him.

I pulled harder, dragging him toward the stairs. No. Just get me inside. Please.

I hadn't told him it was a serial killer. Id just said "stalker." If Tyler went out there and got knifed, or if he just beat the guy up, it would only escalate things. Besides, I had no proof.

I changed the subject to distract him. Is your mom back yet?

Tylers face soured. Mentioning Martha Henderson always hit a nerve.

Who knows? Shes probably staying at a motel to 'make a point' to me and my dad. Its pathetic. She thinks if she disappears for a month, well suddenly start groveling.

He rolled his eyes. It wont work. Neither of us cares. Shell realize shes wrong and crawl back in a few days.

I frowned. Tyler, shes been gone for a month. Have you even tried to call the hospitals? Or the police?

He waved a dismissive hand. Shes a grown woman. Whats going to happen to her? Besides, she was never exactly 'Mother of the Year.' My dad raised me. If it wasn't for him, Id probably be in jail or dead.

In my memory, Martha was anything but distant. She was fiery, sure, but shed always been incredibly attentive to Tyler. She didn't seem like the "absentee" type.

Maybe youre misjudging her? I suggested softly.

Tyler let out a harsh, jagged laugh.

My mother is a tiger, Mia. And not the good kind. She has a temper that could level a building. My dad told me she almost smothered me in my crib when I was a baby. If he hadn't walked in and stopped her, I wouldn't be here.

A voice cut through the air from the landing above, stopping Tyler mid-sentence.

Tyler!

We both looked up. A man was standing there, bathed in the dim yellow glow of the hallway light.

Tylers face brightened. Speak of the devil. Ask him yourself if you don't believe me.

My heart skipped a beat. Id been so caught up in the conversation I hadn't realized someone had been following us up the stairs.

But when I saw it was David, Tylers father, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Id lived in this building for two years, but Martha had always lived here alone. This was the first time Id actually met David in person.

He was exactly as the neighbors described: distinguished, soft-spoken, and radiating a calm, gentle energy.

David stepped down toward us. His voice was firm but lacked any real edge of anger. He looked at Tyler with a sort of weary, indulgent smile.

How many times have I told you not to talk about your mother like that?

He turned to me, his expression softening into one of genuine concern. She might have had her reasons back then, Tyler. Even if she made a mistake in a moment of weakness, you owe her your understanding.

I felt a small prickle of unease. On the surface, he was defending her. But why did it feel like he was actually reinforcing the idea that she was unstable?

Before I could analyze the feeling, we arrived at my door.

As I reached for my keys, the translucent text flickered back to life.

[Wait... why is the victim walking with the killer?]

[This is sick. Hes giving her a false sense of security before the kill. Look at him smile. He loves this.]

[Dont go in there! Dont stay near them! Youre walking into your own grave!]

[No wonder she died so horribly. She literally invited the murderer into her home.]

A wave of nausea rolled over me. The safety Id felt seconds ago vanished, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread. My neck felt like a rusted gear as I slowly turned to look at the two men standing behind me.

The killer was one of them.

Last time, the killer had gotten in through the balcony. He must have come from Marthas apartment next door. Thats why it was so fast.

I swallowed hard, forcing a brittle, plastic smile onto my face.

I couldn't let them see I knew. Id tried so hard to escape, and Id walked straight into the wolfs den.

Tyler, noticing my pallor, poured me a glass of water from the pitcher on my counter. Hey, take it easy. That creep wont bother you anymore.

David looked curious. What creep?

I opened my mouth to stop Tyler, but it was too late.

Some pervert was following Mia. But I scared him off.

Well, thats a relief, David said with a light chuckle. He looked at me, his head tilting slightly. Did you see his face? If you did, we should really call the police.

I shook my head, my eyes darting between them, searching for a crack, a slip, a tell. Nothing. They were perfect.

My mind was a chaotic mess. Why me? What could I have possibly done to earn this level of calculated cruelty?

Tyler reached out toward me. Youre shaking. Youre really spooked, aren't you?

My skin winced before he even touched me. I jerked away, my heart hammering.

I caught myself and laughed nervously. Sorry. Just... a lot of caffeine and a long night. Im exhausted.

Tyler pulled his hand back, scratching his head. Right. Well, get some sleep. Moving day tomorrow is going to be a workout.

Youre moving tomorrow? David asked.

The question felt sharp, somehow. I didn't have time to answer before the text scrolled again.

[The video is almost over. Shes going to die in a few minutes.]

[Her guard is way too low. Letting strangers into her place this late? Basic survival fail.]

The comments were moving too fast to read, and none of them were giving me the one thing I needed: which one?

I forced myself to breathe. I had to analyze. What was the motive?