At 2 a.m., someone pounded on my door so hard it rattled the frame. When I looked through the peephole, it was my neighbor, Emily—barefoot, shaking, tears streaming down her face. “Let me in. Please. Don’t ask questions,” she begged. The second I opened the door, she grabbed my arm and whispered, “He’s not alone.” That’s when headlights slowly swept across my driveway—and I realized we weren’t the only ones awake.

At 2 a.m., someone pounded on my door so hard it rattled the frame. When I looked through the peephole, it was my neighbor, Emily—barefoot, shaking, tears streaming down her face. “Let me in. Please. Don’t ask questions,” she begged. The second I opened the door, she grabbed my arm and whispered, “He’s not alone.” That’s when headlights slowly swept across my driveway—and I realized we weren’t the only ones awake.

Part 1: The Knock at 2 A.M.
The knocking started as a frantic pounding that shook my front door at exactly 2:07 a.m. I remember the time because I had just checked my phone after being jolted awake. My name is Laura Mitchell, and I live alone in a quiet suburban neighborhood outside Denver. Nothing ever happens here. That’s what I used to believe. When I looked through the peephole, I saw my neighbor, Rachel Harper, standing barefoot on my porch, her hair disheveled, tears streaking down her face. She kept glancing over her shoulder as if something might appear behind her. “Laura, please,” she cried through the door. “Let me in. Don’t ask questions.” Her voice wasn’t dramatic. It was terrified. I unlocked the door instinctively, pulling her inside. The second she stepped in, she pushed it shut and leaned her full weight against it, breathing hard. “Turn off the lights,” she whispered urgently. I flicked off the hallway lamp, my heart beginning to pound. “Rachel, what’s going on?” She shook her head violently. “He thinks I’m still in the house.” A chill ran down my spine. “Who?” I asked. She didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the living room window. Carefully, she pulled the curtain aside just an inch. Across the street, her front door was wide open. The porch light flickered. Then I saw movement inside her house—a shadow crossing the entryway. A loud crash echoed through the night, unmistakably the sound of something heavy hitting a wall. My stomach dropped. “He broke in,” she whispered. Before I could process that, headlights swept slowly across both of our houses, lingering on my driveway for a few seconds too long. Rachel’s nails dug into my skin. “He’s not alone,” she said. And that was the moment I realized whatever had followed her to my door hadn’t given up.