3 AM

I write at 3 AM because I have to.

Not "have to" like a deadline. "Have to" like breathing. Like my fingers start twitching around 2:45. Like if I don't sit down and open the document, something inside me will claw its way out.

George and Fred know. They're already on the desk when I come in, two black smudges in the blue light of the monitor. Waiting. They're always waiting.

I've been writing the same story for eight months. A psychological thriller about a woman who can't tell if she's losing her mind or if her apartment is trying to kill her. It should have been finished six months ago. But every time I get close to the end, there's more. Always more. The protagonist does something I didn't plan. A new character appears. A scene I don't remember writing.

Tonight, when I open the document, there are three new pages.

I stare at them. Scroll up. Scroll down. The page count has jumped from 287 to 290. Three pages that weren't there when I went to bed at noon yesterday.

The first line makes my hands go cold.

"It was a dark and stormy night."

I never write clichés. Never. That was my one rule when I started this project.

George's tail twitches. Fred's eyes catch the screen light, two yellow coins in the dark.

I highlight the sentence. Finger hovering over delete.

Stop.

Read it again.

"It was a dark and stormy night when she finally understood: the apartment didn't want to kill her. It wanted her to stay. Forever."

My protagonist's name is Claire. This scene—I don't remember planning this scene. Claire was supposed to escape. That was always the ending. She figures out what's wrong with the apartment, she leaves, she's free.

But now there are three new pages where Claire decides to stay.

Where she chooses the apartment.

Where she realizes leaving would be worse than staying.

I read all three pages. They're good. Better than good. The prose is tighter than anything I've written in months. The psychological tension is perfect. Claire's descent into acceptance feels inevitable, tragic, true.

I should be thrilled.

I'm terrified.

Because I didn't write this.

I delete the pages.

All three of them.

Gone.

I close the laptop. Stand up. George and Fred don't move, just watch me with those unblinking yellow eyes.

"I'm going to bed," I tell them. "Real bed. Not the chair."

Neither cat responds.

I make it to the bedroom. Lie down. Stare at the ceiling.

My fingers itch.

Not a metaphor. Actual itching, deep under the skin, in the bones. Like something trying to get out. Or get in.

I scratch at my palms. Worse. Scratch harder.

At 3:47 AM, I'm back at the desk.

The document is open.

The three pages are back.

And there are two more after them.

The internet says the previous tenant died here.

I find the article buried on page six of a Google search: "Woman Found Dead in Downtown Apartment."

No name. Just "a local writer, 34, was discovered deceased at her desk by building management after neighbors reported a smell."

Cause of death: acute exhaustion and dehydration.

She'd been dead for three days before anyone found her.

The article is four years old.

Four years, and I'm the first person to rent this place since.

The landlord never mentioned it. Never had to, legally. Death in an apartment isn't something that requires disclosure. Not in this state.

I dig deeper. Find an obituary. Still no name—just "survived by two cats, George and Fred, now in the care of animal services."

The room tilts.

I look at the desk. George and Fred are sitting exactly where they always sit. George on the left. Fred on the right. Perfectly symmetrical. Perfectly still.

"You're not mine," I whisper.

Fred blinks, slow and knowing.

"You came with the apartment."

George's tail does that single twitch that means nothing and everything.

I stand up so fast the chair tips backward. Start opening closets. The bedroom closet: my clothes, my shoes, nothing else. The bathroom closet: towels, toilet paper. The hall closet: cleaning supplies, and—

A box.

Cardboard, taped shut, shoved into the back corner behind the vacuum.

My hands shake as I pull it out.

Inside: notebooks. At least a dozen of them. Spiral-bound, college-ruled, filled with cramped handwriting.

I open the first one.

I have to write at 3 AM. If I don't, the itching starts. Under my skin. In my bones. I've tried to stop. I can't. The story won't let me.

Next page.

The cats watch me. George and Fred. I found them on the fire escape when I moved in. I thought they were strays. But they knew the apartment. Knew where everything was. Like they'd always been here.

Next page.

The story keeps growing. I'm trying to finish it, but every time I get close, there's more. It's like it's writing itself. Using me. I'm just the hands.

I flip faster. Pages and pages. Months of entries. The handwriting gets worse—shaky, desperate, sometimes just scrawled fragments.

Can't stop

Story needs

Have to finish

3 AM 3 AM 3 AM

The last entry is dated four years ago. Two days before the article said she died.

I know what happens when you finish it. I found the notebooks from the writer before me. She finished it. She's gone. But the story is still here. It's always here. It needs to be written. Over and over. It needs witnesses. It needs to be real.

George and Fred are part of it. They anchor it. They make it physical.

I'm going to finish it tonight. I don't have a choice anymore. I'm so tired. My hands won't stop shaking. I can barely hold the pen.

If someone finds this: don't write the story. Don't even open the file. Just leave. Take the cats if you can. Don't let them stay here.

But you won't leave.

No one ever leaves.

The story won't let you.

I should pack. Should grab my things and go. Find a hotel. Find anything.

Instead, I'm at the desk.

It's 3 AM.

George and Fred are in position.

The document is open.

I didn't open it. I sat down and it was just... there. Waiting.

Claire is at a crossroads in the story. She's standing in the doorway of the apartment, keys in hand, door open. She could leave. Should leave. The apartment has shown her what it is. What it wants.

She could walk out.

I start typing.

Claire's hand was on the doorknob. Behind her, the apartment was silent. Waiting.

She should go. She knew she should go.

But where would she go? What was out there that was better than this? The apartment understood her. Saw her. Needed her.

Nothing out there needed her.

She closed the door.

Locked it.

And for the first time in months, Claire felt like she was home.

The words pour out. Page after page. Claire unpacking her bags. Claire making dinner. Claire sitting at her desk, looking at her laptop, thinking about the novel she was writing. The novel about a woman who escapes an apartment that's trying to trap her.

Claire deletes it.

Starts something new.

The words flow faster. My fingers can barely keep up. It's like the story is coming through me, not from me. Using my hands. My body.

I should stop.

I can't stop.

Don't want to stop.

The story needs this. Needs to be finished. And I'm so close. I can feel it. Just a few more pages. Just a few more scenes.

George shifts. Fred's ear twitches.

They're watching.

They've always been watching.

The sun comes up. I don't stop writing.

My phone rings. I don't answer.

Someone knocks on the door. I don't move.

The only thing that exists is the story. Claire's story. My story.

Our story.

At some point I realize I'm not typing Claire's name anymore. I'm typing my own.

She sits at the desk at 3 AM because she has to. Because the story needs to be written. Because George and Fred are watching, and they've been watching for longer than she's been alive, watching writer after writer sit in this chair and type until their fingers bleed.

She's so tired.

But she's almost done.

Just a few more pages.

Just a few more—

My vision blurs. When did I last eat? Drink water? Sleep?

Can't remember.

Doesn't matter.

The story is almost finished.

I can feel it. The ending is right there. Right at my fingertips.

All I have to do is write it.

It's 2:55 AM.

I'm at the desk.

I don't remember walking here. Don't remember opening the laptop. But here I am.

George and Fred are waiting.

The document is open.

Blank page. Fresh start.

My fingers hover over the keys.

I could stop. Could walk away. Could—

The itching starts.

Under my skin. In my bones.

I start typing.

I write at 3 AM because I have to.

The words flow.

The story begins again.

Behind me, I hear a sound. Soft. Almost like a purr.

George and Fred, satisfied.

Witnessing.

Always witnessing.

I don't stop typing.

I can't stop typing.

The story needs me.

And I need the story.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

As my fingers bleed.

As the sun rises and sets and rises again.

As the world outside fades to nothing.

As the only real thing becomes the desk, the screen, the cats, the words.

Always the words.

Always at 3 AM.

Always—