The Visitor

The twenty-two year old Emma Taylor was utterly exhausted as she stepped out of the campus library. Her backpack crammed with textbooks, crumpled notes and empty chip bags, dug into her shoulder with every step. She hated finals week with a passion, but luckily she finally felt confident with all her late night studying. All those late night study sessions with minimal sleep would be worth it in the end.

The streets were quiet. Too quite for this part of campus. She assumed it was because others were studying as well. That or our partying somewhere else. Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She ignored it. Probably just another study reminder.

She glanced back down the empty sidewalk. No footsteps but her own. A chill crept under her jacket. Emma pulled it tighter, quickening her pace.

Just a few more blocks, then warmth. And a well deserved sleep. Finals were making her nerves hum. The silence behind her felt too thick. Like someone had just stepped out of sight. Or was it just the stress of finals messing with her thoughts.

The walk home was mercifully short. Emma cut across the narrow alley beside the pharmacy, her boots clicking against the damp pavement. The apartment building loomed ahead - a tired old structure with flickering lights in the entryway.

She pulled out her key, but paused.

The main door was cracked open.

That was odd. Mr. Harlow was obsessed with locking it, always muttering about "keeping the wrong people out." It was usually slammed shut, the lock sticky and stubborn.

Tonight, it gaped like a lazy mouth, swinging gently in the draft.

Emma glanced around. No one on the sidewalk. No movement in the alley. She pushed the door fully open, stepping inside. Maybe somebody forgot to close it in a rush or something.

The lobby was empty - mailboxes lining the far wall, some crammed with unclaimed envelopes. She climbed the stairs quickly, her bag thudding softly with each step.

Her apartment door waited at the end of the third floor. She slid the key in - and frowned.

Unlocked.

Her heart gave a small jump.

No - she must've forgotten to lock it in the rush to class this morning. Had to be that.

Emma slowly pushed the door open. The familiar scent of lavender air freshener drifted out. Lights off. Quiet.

She stepped inside, flicking on the switch. The soft glow filled the small living room. Everything looked normal - shoes by the door, jacket on the chair, books on the table.

Except the bathroom door.

It stood half open.

Emma froze, stomach tightening.

She always closed it. Always.

Her eyes lingered on the narrow crack of darkness beyond the door.

Nothing moved. No sound but the faint hum of the fridge.

Just nerves. Probably.

Still... she didn't move.

Not yet.

Emma shook her head, forcing a breath.

'You're being stupid. Finals stress. Overworked brain playing tricks.' she told herself.

Still... she set her bag down gently by the door instead of tossing it like usual. Her eyes never left that cracked bathroom door.

The faint scrape of laces unraveling broke the silence, followed by the soft thud of shoes being slipped off.

With slow steps, she crossed the room. The soft creak of the floorboards under her socks sounded too loud in the quiet.

She pressed a hand to the bathroom door and pushed it open fast - heart racing.

Nothing.

Toilet. Sink. Towel hanging limp from the rack.

Empty.

Emma exhaled, shaky, embarrassed at her own paranoia. She grabbed the towel, folding it absently. Maybe the door just shifted from the draft like last time.

Emma stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the half-open bathroom door. It was empty. No one inside.

But something still felt wrong.

The couch cushion was slightly out of place - like someone had sat there. The kitchen cupboard hung open by an inch. Little things. Small, quiet mistakes left behind.

Her chest tightened.

Swallowing hard, Emma crossed the room and picked up the largest knife from the kitchen drawer. The cool weight in her hand felt strangely thin, useless.

A faint creak made her spin - the hallway.

Her eyes locked on the dark stretch just outside the living room's glow.

And there he stood.

A figure at the far end of the hall. Still. Motionless. Too far back to see clearly, his shape swallowed by the shadows. Tall. Broad. Watching.

She wasn't alone.

Emma's breath caught. Her grip on the knife trembled.

She blinked.

The figure was gone.

The hallway stood empty, silent, as if no one had ever been there.

She wiped at her eyes, her heart racing, unsure if she'd truly seen him - or if exhaustion was making her crack.

But the air felt heavier now. Thicker. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

Emma backed slowly toward the door.

Something creaked softly from the bedroom behind her.

She clutched the knife tighter than she meant to. Maybe she was just losing it. The stress, the exams, the endless caffeine-it had to be catching up with her.

She fumbled for her phone, the screen lighting her face in pale blue. 11:47 PM. Not that late, really. She should've been able to handle it.

Her thumb brushed the corner of the screen. At the top, the Wi-Fi icon blinked strong and steady. But the bars beside it were empty. No service

No worries. The old trusty turn it off and turn it back on should fix it. She tried toggling it, refreshing, even opening a message thread. Nothing.

"Great," she muttered, voice tight.

A floorboard popped faintly from the bedroom.

Her head snapped up, phone slipping slightly in her grip. She knew for a fact now she wasn't imagining things.

Emma's stomach gave a nervous twist as the silence pressed in again. She shut the phone off and let the dark take over, the blue glow fading from her skin. For a moment, she told herself to stop-just crawl into bed, pull the blanket over her head, and let exhaustion win.

Then came another sound.

A slow, deliberate creak, like weight shifting on the old floorboards at the end of the hall.

The kitchen knife trembled slightly in her grip as she peered down the narrow hallway.

At first, she thought the darkness had simply thickened there, pooling unnaturally. Then her eyes adjusted-and her stomach dropped.

That figure again.

Her eyes hadn't deceived her before. She actually saw it. Her throat clicked when she tried to swallow. She blinked hard, wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, and looked again.

The hallway was empty.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She stumbled back a step, nearly dropping the knife.

A voice came from the dark, low and steady.

"You really are awake."

Emma froze. The sound wasn't muffled through walls or imagined in her head-it was inside the apartment.

Her breath hitched. "Who's there?" she rasped.

A shape peeled itself from the shadows, deliberate and unhurried. He didn't skulk or sneak. He walked like he belonged here, the light catching on his face just enough for her to see the sharp lines of a smile.

No mask. No weapon. Just a man.

Her grip tightened on the knife, every nerve screaming to bolt, but her legs wouldn't move.

The man stopped halfway down the hall, tilting his head as though examining her.

"Good. You've armed yourself. I don't like when it's too easy."

The words hit colder than any threat.

Emma lifted the blade higher, forcing her shaking hand to steady. "Get out. Now"

He chuckled softly, deep in his chest. "No. Tonight, you fight."

And then, without warning, he surged forward.

Emma slashed wildly, the knife cutting air as he twisted aside. His hand snapped out, shoving her wrist hard against the wall-pain shot up her arm, the knife nearly flying free.

Emma yanked back with everything she had, barely slipping from his grip. She swung again, this time grazing his sleeve. A thin line appeared, fabric torn. His smile widened.

"Not a bad start" he said.

She stepped back slowly. He walked closer to her as if predator closing in on its prey. She staggered back, gasping, hands trembling but raised. He didn't advance immediately. He just stood there, watching her struggle to steady herself-as if waiting to see what she'd do next.

She lunged for the counter, snatching a ceramic mug and hurling it. It smashed against his shoulder, shattering to dust. He didn't flinch. As if he hadn't gotten hit at all.

She grabbed another and swung, but this time he caught her wrist mid-swing, twisting until she cried out. The mug tumbled from her grip and burst across the tiles. His face was inches from hers now, calm, almost amused. He had raised his clenched fist. Luckily for her she stomped down on his foot and tore free, darting for the fallen knife. Before she could grasp the weapon a hand clamped the back of her neck and yanked her upright.

Emma screamed, whipping her elbow into his ribs. He grunted, more pleased than pained, and she twisted with everything she had. For a moment she broke free-quickly recovering the knife. She desperately swung the knife at him. The blade left a shallow cut on his forearm.

He came at her full force. She slashed again, but his hand closed over her wrist, crushing tight until her fingers spasmed. The knife clattered away.

And then his fist drove deep into her stomach.

The sound left her before she could stop it-a strangled gasp, sharp and broken. She doubled over, knees buckling, the world swimming as her chest fought for air. Her throat clenched, tight and unyielding. She clawed at her chest, her lungs refusing to obey.

The knife lay just out of reach as she fell to her knees, vision blurring.

The man crouched a few feet away, not rushing, not gloating. Just watching. His head tilted, studying her as if she were an experiment. Her eyes watered as she tried to form words, lungs begging, throat locked. A violent cough rattled her ribs, but nothing came. The hiss of air was too thin, too broken.

He leaned closer. She could see the faint smudge of blood on his arm where her blade had cut him. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes, sharp and dark, stayed fixed on her.

He straightened, gaze shifting toward the counter, toward her bag tossed carelessly aside.

Heavy footsteps carried him to the counter where her purse had been dropped. He rummaged through it with quick, efficient motions. Not frantic. Purposeful.

Emma could barely lift her head, eyes stinging, when he returned. Something small clattered against the floor in front of her, skidding to rest against her hand.

Her inhaler.

For a moment she didn't comprehend. Her trembling fingers curled around it, fumbling, almost dropping it twice before she pressed it to her lips. One sharp inhale-cool medicine cut through her throat, breaking the chokehold.

Tears streamed down her face. She gasped and sobbed, relief and terror tangling in a single sound.

When her vision steadied, she looked up. He was gone, she hadn't even heard him leave.

The man who had visited her home had let her live. He hadn't taken anything.

But as Emma sat trembling on the floor, one thought refused to leave her mind.

What the hell just happened?

He had let her get her inhaler. Why?

After finally managing to get to her feet, Emma grabbed her phone and called the police.

As she waited for them to arrive, she looked around her apartment. Nothing was missing. Her belongings were untouched, aside from the mess left behind by their struggle.

He hadn't come to steal anything.

He had simply entered her home for no other reason than to fight her.

And for some reason, he had let her live.