WET PUSSY

Selene's breath fogged the air as though her apartment had turned cold in an instant. The storm was bad enough, but that bloody handprint pressed against her window was something she couldn't rationalize.

She moved closer, each step slower than the last. Her reflection in the glass wavered with the shifting light of the storm. The print was still there, fingers long, streaks trailing downward where rain diluted crimson into pink.

It was fresh.

Someone had been standing there.

Her throat went dry.

She lived on the fourth floor.

Selene staggered back, bumping into the small table where unopened mail scattered to the floor. The cat silent until now leapt onto her couch, its wet paws leaving dark prints on the fabric. Its golden eyes fixed on the window.

It wasn't afraid. It was watching.

Her shaking hand reached for her phone. Dead. The screen refused to light. She cursed, remembering she had left the charger in her car earlier.

Another flicker the power wavered, humming as though the building itself held its breath. Then silence, so complete the roar of rain outside felt muted.

And in that silence, Selene swore she heard it.

Footsteps.

Not from the hallway.

From inside.