There it was on the screen—me. At exactly 2:00 AM.
I'd stumbled out of the master bedroom, eyes closed, moving like a marionette with its strings pulled tight. No hesitation, no fumbling. Just a straight line from the bed to the living room couch, where I plopped down like a sack of potatoes. Then my hand reached out, grabbed the remote, and flipped on the TV—all without so much as a blink.
The sound of the TV blared through the laptop speakers, loud enough to wake the dead. But I didn't stir. Just sat there, eyes shut tight, "watching" it until 4:00 AM, when I finally toppled over onto the cushions and passed out cold.
And the footprints? The concrete stiletto marks that had haunted me? Nowhere. Not a single smudge, not a trace of them in the entire feed.
I stared at the screen, frozen, my legs numb from squatting on the floor for so long. My mouth went dry.
I'd been sleepwalking. I'd actually been sleepwalking. And the footprints? They'd been nothing but a hallucination. A figment of my overworked, stressed-out brain.
"Shit, man." Jake swallowed hard, eyeing me like I'd grown a second head. It wasn't fear in his voice—more like worry, sharp and tight. "You been carrying too much at work lately? This is some next-level burnout."
He clapped a hand on my shoulder, his tone softening. "Look, I'll give you a week off—paid. Go hike, hit the beach, whatever. Clear your head. Or—we can swing by the clinic at sunrise, get you checked out. No shame in it, okay?"
I dug my nails into my scalp, my chest tight with frustration. "I don't get sleepwalking! I've never done this before in my life!" I snapped, my voice cracking. "And I swear to God, Jake—I saw those footprints! Red stilettos, concrete, leading straight to the bedroom! Why the hell didn't the camera pick them up?!"
Jake's expression didn't waver. He still thought I'd lost my mind a little—stressed to the breaking point and seeing things. But he didn't say it. Instead, he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.
"Here's the deal. We told the Carters we'd stay two nights, right? Tonight—I'm crashing here with you. No arguments." He leaned in, his voice firm but gentle. "If those footprints show up again, I'll see 'em too. If they don't… we'll figure out what's going on with you. Together. Deal?"
That was Jake for you—ride or die, no questions asked. Even when I sounded like a raving lunatic.
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. I hated the thought of stepping foot back into that house, but I had to prove I wasn't crazy. If I didn't, I'd be checking myself into a psych ward before the week was out.
By the time we finished combing through the footage, the sky was bleeding pink and orange—dawn breaking over Maplewood Estates. We locked up the house and stumbled out into the crisp morning air, both of us running on fumes.
We grabbed breakfast at a greasy diner down the street—bacon, eggs, burnt toast—and then headed back to the brokerage. But I was useless all day. My mind kept replaying the video, the sound of the TV, the absence of footprints. Why had I seen them? Why had the camera missed them? And since when did I sleepwalk like a zombie?
By 8:00 PM, Jake and I were back at 502, armed with a cooler of beer and a bag of takeout wings. We hauled everything into the master bedroom, flopped onto the bed, and cracked open a couple of cans.
We talked until our throats were dry—about high school, about the time we'd snuck out to camp in the woods and gotten lost, about how our dads had been friends before we were even born. Blood brothers, our folks used to call us. And it was true—we were closer than most siblings.
Jake slammed his beer can down on the nightstand, grinning like he owned the place. "Tonight, we don't sleep. Not a wink. We'll sit here, chug beer, and wait for your ghost girl to show up. And if she does? I'll tell her to take a hike. Ghosts, ghouls, whatever—ain't nothing scaring Jake Marlow."
His bravado was contagious. For a second, I almost believed him.
Almost.
Thirty minutes later, we were both passed out cold, beer cans still clutched in our hands, wings forgotten on the comforter. The alcohol had hit us hard, and the exhaustion from the night before had finished the job. We slept like rocks—deep, dreamless, dead to the world.
But it didn't last long.
The knocking started again. Slow. Steady. Rap-rap-rap.
I jolted upright, my heart lurching into my throat. Cold sweat soaked my shirt. I shook Jake's shoulder so hard his head bobbled. "Wake up! Wake up! Someone's knocking!"
Jake groaned, swatting at my hand like it was a fly. He rolled over, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Quit yer yappin'. Prob'ly just a raccoon or somethin'. Go back to sleep."
"It's midnight!" I hissed, yanking my phone off the nightstand. The screen lit up—12:00 AM, sharp as a knife.
A chill slithered down my spine, icy and cold. I froze, my eyes locked on the bedroom door.
No.
No way.
Not again.
Please, God. Not the girl looking for Li Xiumei.