The Murder House Chapter 13

I fumbled my way to the door, looking through the peephole.

He stood at the door again.

What a cunning killer.

Looked like he was determined to get in tonight.

"I... already... called the police."

"You better not leave. They'll be here soon to arrest you, you murderer!"

"If you're so tough, come in and kill me!"

...

Terrified, yet unwilling to let him escape easily.

This kind of highly intelligent criminal, once he fled, would vanish without a trace.

Police would be searching for a needle in a haystack, helpless.

I pulled out my phone, wanting to call Mom and Dad.

But at this hour they'd be sleeping—I couldn't bear to wake them.

After hesitating, I decided to write a final message instead.

Didn't want to die suddenly like Emma, leaving nothing behind.

The lights suddenly went out.

Bad feeling.

He was losing patience...

Pitch black. I was extremely nervous, chills down my spine.

Since renting this murder house, I'd never turned off the lights.

Truth was, I was scared and timid, yet recklessly stubborn.

I thought I could avenge my sister, but my abilities and strength were completely inadequate.

I lived in the open; the killer hid in shadows.

The fingerprint lock wouldn't be affected by power outage.

But the cameras inside probably weren't working, and the wall monitors were useless.

I gripped my axe, curled up beside the couch.

Didn't dare breathe.

Outside the door was pitch black too.

Finished writing my last message in confusion.

My phone suddenly lit up.

Who was texting me this late?

Heart pounding, I took a deep breath.

At a moment like this, I was scared out of my mind.

If I could do it over, I'd never be this reckless again.

Renting the murder house, avenging my sister—I'd oversimplified it.

A moment of heroic impulse had created this life-or-death situation.

The living should live well.

Shouldn't wallow in grief over and over.

Should have vented my emotions then gone home quietly.

The message was a voice call on WhatsApp from the neighbor across the hall.

When she moved in this morning, we'd introduced ourselves and exchanged contacts.

Her smile—I remembered it vividly.

Not the typical hardship of single mothers.

"Call 911, quick... call... save... my child..."

Trembling, crying voice, broken.

Faintly I could hear the child crying in the background.

I sobbed, covering my mouth.

Listening to the piercing, agonizing sounds.

My heart kept crying out apologies.

I'd called the police, but they didn't believe me anymore.

Regret flooded me—why had I treated 911 calls like a joke before?

At the critical moment, they...

Wave after wave of screams, like knives carving into my heart.

Deep self-blame.

That night Emma was murdered, she must have felt this helpless too.

If someone had saved her, maybe she wouldn't have died so horribly.

"Open the door. If you open the door, I'll let them go."

A steady male voice suddenly came through the voice call.

The tone—slightly familiar, yet I couldn't place it.

I held my breath, not daring to make a sound.

The killer's intent was clear—he specifically wanted my life?

What was his motive?

Returning to the crime scene and discovering someone still living in the murder house, driven by curiosity to kill?

Thinking of my sister's brutal death, I shuddered.

Open the door—hand over my life in exchange for the neighbors' lives.

Don't open—wait for dawn, rain to stop, police to come clean up the aftermath.

I was torn.