Chapter 3
1950words
"Emily, it's me, Jason. I've come... to see you."
I didn't scream—I retreated. A bone-deep tremor forced me backward until I slammed into the wall with a dull thud. My mind emptied completely. Every scrap of denial, every whispered self-assurance that this couldn't be happening—all of it pulverized by that intimate greeting. The book wasn't a warning. It was a live broadcast.
"Aren't you going to let me in, sweetheart?" he continued, his voice sickly sweet. "It's freezing out here. I just wanted to surprise you."
Surprise? I'd have preferred a mail bomb. I clamped my hand over my mouth, terrified that even the sound of my breathing might betray me. I couldn't open that door. Absolutely could not. As long as it stayed closed, I had a fighting chance.
My eyes darted around the living room, hunting for anything I could use as a weapon. The ceramic vase? Too light. Table lamp? Cord too short. I was a cornered animal, desperately searching for escape.
Then came a soft metallic scraping from the other side of the door.
*Click.*
That tiny sound sliced through my panicked thoughts like a razor. I whipped around, eyes locked on the doorknob. That wasn't knocking. That was... a key sliding into the lock.
My heart plummeted.
A key? How the fuck did he have a key?
The realization struck me like a physical blow. I remembered now. A week ago, I'd joked about being forgetful, always worried I'd lock myself out someday. He'd said: "Send me a spare key, babe. For emergencies." And I—stupid, naive, desperate-for-connection me—had been so touched by his "thoughtfulness" that I'd actually mailed my spare key to the address he gave me.
I was beyond stupid. I was suicidal.
The doorknob rotated with agonizing slowness. That silent, fluid motion marked the collapse of my last defense. The door cracked open, and the sickly hallway light knifed through the gap, carving Jason's tall figure into a menacing shadow.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a soft click. Instantly, the living room felt airless, like he'd sucked all the oxygen out with him. He pulled back his hood, revealing that handsome face—exactly like his photos. His smile remained gentle, as if he really were just some devoted boyfriend who'd flown across the country to surprise the girl he couldn't stop thinking about.
"I knew you'd be home," he said, spreading his arms as if for a hug. "What's wrong, baby? Not happy to see me?"
I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. My eyes locked onto his right hand hanging at his side. With practiced casualness, he slipped it into his pocket, but not before I glimpsed something bulging beneath the fabric. That shape... that unmistakable metallic glint...
A knife.
No doubt about it. The same knife he'd buried in Sarah's mattress in the "movie."
Survival instinct finally kicked through the paralyzing fear. Don't provoke him. Not yet. My brain shifted into overdrive. Run? He was blocking the only exit. Scream? This building had premium soundproofing—the selling point my parents had loved. My only hope... my only lifeline was my phone lying on the bed. That weird portal connecting to another reality.
I needed to buy time.
I sucked in a breath and forced my face into what I hoped was a smile. "Jason? Oh my god... what are you doing here? This is... wow, so unexpected." I strained to make my voice sound surprised rather than terrified.
"Just wanted to surprise you." He moved closer, radiating menace that made my knees weak. "Got tired of only seeing you through a screen. I needed to see you in person, to... touch you with my own hands."
His words slithered over me like a snake's tongue. Each step he took closer made the predatory energy rolling off him more palpable.
"How did you... get in?" I asked, playing dumb while inching subtly toward my bedroom.
"Oh, this?" He dangled the silver key between us, his smile turning playful in a way that made my skin crawl. "Don't you remember? You sent it to me yourself. Our 'little secret.'"
No. That was my death warrant.
"I'll... get you some water." I seized on the excuse, turning toward the kitchen. But my real target was my bedroom—if I could just get past him...
"No rush." His hand clamped around my wrist like a steel trap. His palm was massive, making my struggles as effective as a butterfly fighting a hurricane. "We've got all night, don't we?"
He dragged me to the couch and forced me down, then took the armchair opposite—positioning himself perfectly to watch my every twitch. He didn't pocket the key but placed it deliberately on the coffee table between us. A hunter displaying his trophy.
Despair crashed over me. I was trapped.
No—not yet. I still had a chance. My phone was on my bed, just a few yards away. I just needed one opening, one moment to make a break for it.
My eyes darted to my phone screen. In that bizarre "movie," Sarah was still hiding behind the library shelves. She seemed aware of what was happening here—or rather, the book she was reading, "The Comment Section," had updated to show Jason entering my apartment. Her face was twisted with fear and concern. She wasn't the helpless victim anymore. Now she looked like someone watching a friend walk to their execution.
I had to reach her. She was the only one who knew the truth.
I had to tell her this wasn't fiction—that she needed to call the police! Even if it was a long shot, it was my only chance.
"You seem tense." Jason's voice cut through my planning. He leaned forward, his eyes glittering with something feral. "Not feeling well? Or... hiding something from me?"
"N-no," I stammered. "Just... haven't had visitors in a while. It's weird having someone else here."
"Is that right?" His smile never reached his eyes. "I'm hardly a 'visitor,' Emily. I know everything about you. I know you binge horror movies when you're anxious. I know your parents won't be back until Monday. I know you sleep hugging your pillow..."
Each word sent ice through my veins. He wasn't just some guy I'd met online. He was the monster under my bed who'd been watching me all along.
"I... need to use the bathroom." I tried standing again, channeling every acting class I'd ever taken. I clutched my stomach and winced. "My stomach's killing me. Must've been that leftover pizza."
Jason studied me, his eyes dissecting my performance. Those few seconds stretched into eternity. Finally, he nodded. "Fine. But hurry back. I still have a 'gift' for you."
His eyes flicked to the pocket containing the knife.
I stumbled toward the bathroom, but that wasn't my target. As I passed my bedroom door, I gathered every ounce of strength, pivoted sharply, and lunged inside, slamming and locking the door in one desperate motion.
*BANG!*
I collapsed against the door, gulping air, my heart hammering in my throat. This flimsy door wouldn't hold him long—I had seconds, maybe a minute tops.
I lunged for the bed and snatched my phone. On screen, Sarah had jumped to her feet, pacing frantically between the bookshelves, her face contorted with helpless panic as she watched my story unfold in the pages.
Hurry! HURRY!
My fingers shook so badly I kept hitting the wrong keys, backspacing, trying again.
"HE'S IN MY HOUSE! CALL POLICE! ADDRESS IS..."
I typed frantically, each character taking an eternity to appear.
Suddenly—*CRASH!*—the bedroom door splintered under a savage kick from outside.
Jason was done playing.
"EMILY! YOU THINK THIS PIECE OF SHIT DOOR CAN STOP ME?!" His roar blasted through the cracking wood. The gentle facade had vanished, revealing the monster beneath.
I couldn't waste another second. I deleted the address and sent the simplest possible cry for help.
"JASON IS THE KILLER! CALL POLICE!"
Send.
The comment flashed onto the screen. In the movie, Sarah's eyes widened as she read it. Without hesitation, she grabbed her phone and started dialing. She was calling the police! She was actually trying to help!
A tiny spark of hope flickered to life.
*CRASH!!*
Another kick, and the lock tore free from the frame, the door splitting down the middle.
*BOOM!!*
The third kick sent the door crashing inward. Jason filled the doorway, the kitchen knife gleaming in his fist, his face twisted into something inhuman. Nothing remained of the charming man from his profile pictures.
"You fucking bitch!" He advanced on me, step by measured step. "I gave you a chance! I was going to make it quick!"
I screamed, hurling everything within reach—pillow, lamp, books—as I scrambled backward until my spine hit the window. Nowhere left to run.
"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" I screamed with everything I had, praying my voice would penetrate these too-perfect walls and reach someone, anyone.
"Scream all you want," Jason sneered, savoring my terror. "No one can hear you. Just like... no one could hear her."
He jabbed his knife toward my phone on the bed. I glanced over and saw Sarah, phone pressed to her ear, her face crumpling with despair. She was sobbing, gesturing wildly, clearly trying to explain something impossible to whoever was on the line. A teenage girl calling 911 in the middle of the night claiming she was watching a murder happen "inside a book"? They probably thought it was a prank call.
My final hope shattered.
"Now," Jason raised the knife high, "it's your turn."
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the blade. But in that final moment, something strange happened. My awareness seemed to split, part of me still in my body, part of me somehow watching that "movie" screen.
I saw Sarah collapsed on the library floor, clutching "The Comment Section," fat tears splashing onto the pages. She was reading the very end of this chapter.
She was reading... my death.
The searing agony of cold steel tearing through my flesh merged with Sarah's silent sobs, creating the final image in my consciousness before everything went black.
...
...
"God, Mark, you're terrible. I really thought you were hiding in my closet or something."
A familiar voice. Familiar words.
My eyes snapped open.
I was... alive?
I clutched at my chest, finding no wound, not even a phantom pain. I sat unharmed on my bed, my room exactly as it had been. Through the window, the night was pitch black. The clock read 11:10.
I stared at my phone. On screen, Sarah Miller was flirting with the camera, sprawled safely across her dorm bed. The masked killer hadn't yet emerged from the closet.
Everything... had reset?
The brutal death I'd just experienced—the knife's cold bite, Jason's twisted face, Sarah's helpless tears—was it all just some hyper-realistic nightmare?
No.
Not a dream. The terror and agony still echoed through every cell in my body.
With shaking hands, I looked at the comment box at the bottom of the screen. The cursor blinked patiently, waiting for my input.
But in the bottom right corner of the input box was something I hadn't noticed before.
A small, gray number.
It displayed clearly, like an epitaph on a tombstone:
15/15.
My breath caught in my throat.
