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Rap, tap, tap.
An abrupt knock on the door slices through the room like a hot steak knife. The bottle slips from my trembling hands, exploding on the floor in a pool of sharp, sticky liquid.
Another knock. Louder this time.
Oh, my god.
I have to get out of here. Away from the door and whoever is on the other side of it. I stagger to the windows, my bare feet crunching over the glass. The skyline of New York City cries in front of me as the streets bear the brunt of the storm. They look a million miles away. The window cracks open just an inch, and even if I could somehow pry it open enough to squeeze through, I’d be nothing more than a pancake on 57th Street.
When the third knock comes, my blood turns to ice. An old cautionary tale the nuns at the pustosh’ used to chant seeps out of the locked box at the back of my brain.
If you commit a sin,
The Devil will knock thrice.
If you let him in,
He’ll make you his wife.
A stupid nursery rhyme, one made to scare little girls into acting like ladies. It’s not true. Of course it’s not true. Is it?
I—
“I know there’s a body in there.”
The voice floats through the room like a helium balloon, a cocktail of velvet and nails.
My heart skips a beat.
So this is it. This is how it ends. After everything I’ve been through, this is what will finally kill me.
“And I know you’re panicking. I know you’re trying to figure out how to get rid of it.”
The voice again. It’s deep, alluring. Eerily calm.
Then—
“Luckily for you, I’m very good at getting rid of bodies. Now let me in.”
