The Murder House Chapter 6

"Maya, stop leaving the lights on at night. What if the bad guy sees through the window... that someone's still living there..."

Through the phone, I heard Mom sobbing.

"Come home, sweetheart. You're the only child we have left. If something happens to you, how will we go on?"

Dad pleaded with me for a long time.

They said Emma's murder had taken half their lives already.

The pain was already unbearable—they couldn't lose another daughter.

But I refused to give up.

How could the killer commit such a heinous crime and walk free?!

"Maya, come home. Come back to Mom and Dad. Don't waste any more energy on Emma's case."

"Three years have passed. If the police can't do anything, what can one girl possibly do?"

"Stop living in that apartment. You can't spend every day living in the shadow of Emma's murder. You need to move on."

"Maya, are you listening to us? Hello... hello..."

...

My parents' voices droned on through the phone. All I felt was a chill down my spine.

Someone had definitely just knocked on the door.

But looking through the peephole, I couldn't see anyone.

The hallway motion-sensor light came on. Someone must have just passed by.

Midnight. The room silent as death. My heart tightened.

Ever since the murder happened on this floor, most neighbors had moved away.

I hadn't ordered food delivery. It couldn't be a courier.

Holding my phone, I trembled involuntarily.

"Mom, it's almost time. I'm about to meet him."

"The killer... I think he's come back..."

...

Sixth sense screaming. Scalp tingling. Strange excitement.

Instinct told me he—or they—had noticed the murder house.

Images of my sister's murder flashed through my mind. I couldn't help panicking, hesitating.

I'd thought I had everything under control, that I'd stay calm under pressure.

But the intermittent knocking was rattling my nerves.

The murder house door had been replaced. Impenetrable.

First: I wouldn't open the door until he was down.

Second: I wouldn't call the police—I couldn't let them take him away before I got my revenge.

Third: I couldn't let him kill me before I killed him.

An hour ago, a torrential rainstorm hit, pouring down in sheets.

The weather service issued an emergency alert, warning people to stay indoors.

A once-in-decades natural disaster.

I'd researched it—most serial killers preferred to act during rainstorms.

Heavy rain washed away traces and evidence.

Three years ago, the night my sister was murdered had also been a rainy night.

Back then, to save money, she'd rented this remote location.

Since it was a newly built complex, there weren't even security cameras nearby.

The killer left no footprints, no fingerprints, no DNA.

A cold case. All leads dead.

The blood-spattered walls were from my sister's struggles.

Trembling, eyes red, I looked through the peephole again.

Pitch black...