Chapter 1:

Footsteps in the Dark

The Physicophat next Door

Morning arrived softly, as though the night had never happened.

Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, painting pale lines across my bedroom wall. For a few seconds, I lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening. My heart was already awake, pounding too fast for a normal morning. I half-expected to hear it again the slow, deliberate sound that had frozen me in place the night before.

But there was nothing.

No footsteps.

No whispers.

No movement at all.

I exhaled shakily and told myself what any sane person would: It was just a nightmare.

Still, when I sat up, a chill ran through me. The air felt wrong too cold for early morning. I rubbed my arms and swung my legs over the bed. The floorboards didn’t creak this time, but I moved carefully anyway, as if the house might react to me.

The mirror across the room caught my attention. I hesitated before looking into it.

My reflection stared back tired eyes, dark circles, lips pressed tight. Nothing unusual. No shadow behind me. No figure standing where it shouldn’t be. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

The house was normal. Painfully normal.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed quietly. Outside, birds chirped. Somewhere down the street, a car door slammed. Life went on, untouched by whatever terror had wrapped itself around me the night before.

I poured myself a glass of water, but my hands were shaking so badly that some spilled onto the counter.

Get a grip, I told myself. You’re safe.

By the time I stepped outside, the neighborhood looked exactly as it always had clean sidewalks, neatly trimmed lawns, houses standing in polite rows like they were all minding their own business. Mrs. Allen waved as she watered her flowers. Two children rode their bikes in lazy circles. Everything screamed normal.

That was when I saw him.

He stood in front of the house next door, his back turned as he locked the door. He was tall, neatly dressed in dark trousers and a plain shirt, his movements unhurried. Something about the way he stood so calm, so controlled made me slow my steps.

As if he felt my gaze, he turned.

Our eyes met.

He smiled.

“Good morning,” he said.

His voice was smooth. Friendly. The kind of voice that made people feel comfortable without trying.

“Morning,” I replied, though my throat felt dry.

This was my neighbor. The one everyone liked. The one people described as quiet, polite, harmless. I had seen him at community meetings, always sitting in the back, listening more than he spoke. I couldn’t remember anyone ever saying a bad word about him.

Yet standing there, something inside me tightened.

He stepped closer, not invading my space, but near enough that I noticed a faint smell clinging to him. Damp. Earthy. Almost metallic.

My stomach dropped.

It was the same smell from my room the night before.

“You live alone?” he asked casually, as though it were the most innocent question in the world.

“Yes,” I answered after a pause.

He nodded, studying me not staring, not openly watching, but observing in a way that made me feel like a detail in a picture he was memorizing.

“This is a very safe neighborhood,” he said with a small smile. “Nothing ever happens here.”

Safe.

The word echoed in my mind as he walked away, disappearing into the calm of the street like he had never unsettled me at all.

The rest of the day passed slowly. Too slowly. Every sound made me jump. Every shadow felt heavier than it should. When evening came, dread settled in my chest like a weight.

I locked my doors. Checked my windows. Once. Twice. Then again.

Night fell quietly.

Too quietly.

I sat on my bed, lights still on, telling myself I was being ridiculous. That fear had a way of inventing monsters where none existed.

Then, just as I reached to turn off the lamp

A sound.

Not inside my house.

From next door.

A single footstep.

Slow. Deliberate.

I froze.

Another followed.