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This isn’t the first time I’ve been woken up by strange noises outside the door, but like clockwork it comes at the same time each night, just after midnight.

It’s always creepy too, the footsteps, the voices, though I’m the only one who lives in my apartment on the third floor of a building I’m sure is ancient.

The owner has insisted there’s nothing to be worried about, but heck if he spent even a single night huddled under the covers here he’d know what I’ve been through every night for almost a week.

“Danny,” one of the voices whispers. I shiver, there’s always voices, but they’ve never been audible until tonight.

I cower beneath the covers, barely able to see the moonlight peeking through my uncovered window. It’s cold in the room too. That’s another thing. There’s no built-in lighting or heat in this place, like the builders in the forties were somehow ignorant of how to properly build an apartment building.

“Danny.” The voice again. It sounds closer this time and I can even hear footsteps coming towards my room.

Screw this. If that thing was coming for me tonight I wouldn’t cower under the blankets thinking that they’d somehow protect me like some kid with a nightmare.

I jump out of bed and in a few rapid steps I’m at the door which is surprisingly new compared to the rest of this place, but the way the doors painted I think the owner should be banned from buying anymore paint.

The door handle sticks as I try to turn it, the paint coating it keeping it from turning. In the week I’ve been here I’ve had my share of switches that make the lights flicker, leaking sinks and roaring dryers. But none of those compare to tonight.

“Danny.” I turn from the door, for some reason I’m unable to wrench it open. If I hadn’t known better it felt like someone had been holding it shut.

Where was my next viable exit? I look across the room, barely noticing the old porcelain plates and grimy clothes that cover much of the room’s surfaces. I’m not the cleanest guy, I know, but when you’re scared half out of your mind every night, being tidy is hardly the first thing on your mind. You only think of surviving each night. But tonight was about escape.

“Danny.” It was getting closer.

I look towards the window, the glass old and speckled with probably a million years worth of grime and water stains, and was that… I curse the landlord, more dang paint. He really should be banned from Home Depot’s paint section.

Without much hope I race to the window, my heart pounding louder by the second. Whatever was out there could probably hear it by now.

I pull at the window, trying hard to pop the locks that hold it down. They won’t budge!

“Danny. Don’t leave.” I put every ounce of strength I have into popping the locks and relief floods me as they come free with a ripping of dry paint. Now the real test would be to see if the window would actually open.

I push at it, my knuckles white against the old wood. This time my luck might be out. The part of the window I’m pushing against cracks, splits, and falls to the floor in a splintered mess. Okay plan B was gone too.

“You can’t leave.” The voice is closer than ever and now the footsteps have stopped as if the thing has finally come to a stop outside the door. I needed a plan C and fast.

I could break the window, but not only would that seriously piss off my landlord, but I’ve seen movies where some idiot cuts himself and bleeds out after breaking it. I didn’t exactly fancy that.

Instead I reach for one of the sheets on the bed and wrap it around my hand so that I don’t die from something stupid like a piece of glass. Imagine that on my headstone: Danny: died to a piece of cooked sand. It’s an oversimplification I know but I was hardly going to go out in such a way.

The door rattles behind me, the voices silent now for the first night in a week, like a bunch of kids in a schoolyard waiting for the bully to kick the crap out of the new kid. The door doesn’t open.

“Danny no!” The voice screams at me now, angry and I waste no time in punching a hole in the window. It shatters easily and glass rains down and catches the light of the moon standing witness of the night.

Being on the third floor of a building it’s quite a drop to the bottom, but thankfully there’s a small ledge jutting out below the window. I step out onto it and glance back just as the door flies open and crashes into the wall.

I’m gone before I can see what’s standing there in the doorway, but the other voices start up again, excited.

Below me, the narrow street is completely devoid of cars and only a single flickering lamppost lights up the road. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks.

I make my way slowly across the ledge, praying both that I won’t fall and that whatever is still inside my room won’t follow me out here.

“Danny.” The voice is fainter now, almost sad compared to the anger I’d heard only seconds before. It sounded almost like a kid who’s been told they can’t have the last cookie from the jar.

The ledge ends as I get to the corner of the building and as I peek in the only other window on this side, I see that it’s still my apartment. Crap. I’d been hoping that I’d get at least to the next apartment, though how my neighbor would react to some creep outside his third-story window probably wouldn’t result in anything good.

Instead I look down, definitely too far to jump unless I wanted something broken along with the terrifying week I’ve had so I turn back to the window and don’t even bother trying to budge it. More glass falls to the ground as I kick at the window until it breaks.

“Danny?” the voice calls from my room. Rapid footsteps follow. I go through the window one foot first, then the next, and I’m in. The other whispers have gone quiet again, but the footsteps haven’t slowed as they race towards me.

What could I use to defend myself? A knife to my left? The poker from the fireplace several feet away? I opt for the poker and run for it as something comes around the corner.

Gripping the cold iron poker I turn and… there’s a kid? His face and hair are pale like the bad makeup from the ghost movies I used to watch when I was younger. I don’t put the poker down.

“Danny,” the kid says, “I just want to play.” Dozens of other voices join in, laughter filling the entire apartment until it feels like my head is going to explode.

“We just want to play, Danny.”

“We just want to play.”