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Novelo Rectangle

The alarm wasn’t supposed to go off with a piercing shriek at 3:33 a.m. Sarah jolted upright, her heart pounding, her breath coming in short gasps. She squinted through the darkness, her mind still foggy with the remnants of a dream she couldn’t remember. The noise sliced through the silence of her bedroom, shrill and wrong, setting her teeth on edge. She fumbled for her phone on the nightstand, expecting some sort of notification, but there was nothing. No missed calls, no texts—just the glaring time: 3:33 a.m. The alarm blared on. She stared at the clock on her bedside table, confused. She hadn’t set an alarm. Certainly not for the middle of the night. Shaking off the last traces of sleep, Sarah grabbed the clock, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. The time flickered strangely—3:33… and then something else. For a split second, the numbers changed to a series of jagged, unfamiliar symbols. Her breath caught in her throat. What the hell? She pressed every button she could find, trying to turn it off, but the noise continued, relentless. And then, as suddenly as it had started, the alarm cut off, plunging the room into an eerie silence. Sarah sat frozen, listening to the sound of her own heartbeat, her skin prickling with unease. She scanned the room, half-expecting to see something out of place, but everything was just as it should be. The soft glow of streetlights filtered in through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. Her dresser stood in the corner, undisturbed. The door to the hallway was slightly ajar, as she always left it. Nothing seemed amiss, yet her body hummed with a strange sense of wrongness. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Maybe it was just a glitch—a malfunction in the clock, nothing more. She lay back down, pulling the blankets up to her chin, willing herself to relax. But as her body settled into the mattress, she heard it. A faint, dragging sound, coming from the hallway. Sarah’s eyes snapped open, her body stiffening. The sound was soft, almost imperceptible, like something heavy being dragged across the wooden floor. It was slow, deliberate, as if whoever—or whatever—was making it wasn’t in a hurry. She strained her ears, listening. Maybe it was the house settling, she told herself. Old houses creaked and groaned at night, didn’t they? But no—this was different. It wasn’t the random pop or creak of wood. It was rhythmic. Methodical. The sound grew louder, closer. Sarah sat up in bed, every muscle tense. Her mind raced, searching for a rational explanation. Maybe it was a raccoon or some other animal that had somehow gotten inside. But the scraping continued, steady and deliberate, inching its way toward her bedroom. She glanced toward the door, her stomach knotting with dread. The hallway beyond was pitch black. She couldn’t see anything past the sliver of light from her bedside lamp, but the sound was unmistakable now—something was moving toward her. Her hand crept toward the lamp, fingers trembling. Just as she reached for the switch, the sound stopped, right outside her door. Her breath caught in her throat. The silence was deafening, pressing in around her. She could feel the air change—thicker, colder, as though the temperature in the room had dropped several degrees. Goosebumps prickled along her arms. She waited, listening, heart pounding in her ears. Then, three soft knocks. Knock. Knock. Knock. They were slow, measured, the kind of knock one would use if they were politely waiting for an answer. But there was something off about it, something that made her blood run cold. Her mind screamed at her not to answer. She lived alone. No one was supposed to be here. There were no visitors, no neighbors close enough to drop by unannounced. And certainly not at this hour. “Who’s there?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, shaky and uncertain. There was no response. Sarah’s pulse quickened as she stared at the door, willing herself to move, to get up and lock it, but she couldn’t. Her legs felt like lead. She was frozen in place, caught in the grip of some primal fear she couldn’t fully explain. And then she heard it. A voice, muffled and distant, but unmistakable. “Let me in…” Her breath hitched. The voice was soft, barely audible, but it was enough to send a chill racing down her spine. It sounded familiar, like someone she knew, someone she hadn’t heard in a long time. “Let me in, Sarah…” Her blood turned to ice. That voice—it sounded like her mother. Her mother who had died three years ago. A nauseating wave of disbelief and terror washed over her. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog of confusion, but the voice came again, more insistent this time. “Sarah, please… it’s so cold out here…” Tears pricked her eyes. It couldn’t be. Her mother was gone. She had been gone for years, buried in the cemetery across town. There was no way she could be standing outside her bedroom door, whispering through the wood. But the voice… it was so familiar, so real. The doorknob rattled, twisting violently as if someone was trying to open it. The knocks turned frantic, and the voice grew louder, pleading. “Let me in, Sarah! Let me in!” She stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the edge of the bed, her body trembling with fear. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. She was dreaming—she had to be. The door shook in its frame, the knocks growing more forceful. She backed up against the far wall, her eyes wide with terror as the voice continued to plead. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the noise stopped. The house fell into a deathly silence. Sarah stood frozen, her back pressed against the wall, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The door stood still now, the rattling gone, the voice silenced. But the feeling of wrongness lingered, thick and heavy in the air. She waited, her heart thudding painfully in her chest, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Minutes passed, and nothing happened. Cautiously, she stepped forward, her bare feet cold against the floor. She hesitated for a moment before reaching for the doorknob, her fingers trembling. She twisted it slowly, pulling the door open just a crack. The hallway was empty. But something was wrong. Right in front of her door, etched into the wooden floor, were three long, deep scratch marks, as though something had clawed its way toward her room. The sight of them made her stomach turn. The metallic scent of blood hung faintly in the air, sharp and unnatural. Her eyes followed the scratch marks, trailing down the hallway toward the stairs. The darkness seemed to press in around her, suffocating, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. And then she heard it again. The alarm. But this time, it was coming from downstairs. Her blood ran cold as the realization hit her. She hadn’t set it.

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The Mimic

Rosiedey

Lydia Seljan

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The Mimic

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Lydia Seljan

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